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University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  book  collection  of 

BERTRAND  H.  BRONSON 

bequeathed  by  him 
or  donated  by  his  wife 

Mildred  S.  Bronson 


Ir-'Q^ 


iiii 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/bookofoldenglishOOedwarich 


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Introduction 7 

Chevy  Chtcc 29 

King  Cophetua  and  the  Beggar- Maid 43 

King  Leir  and  his  Three  Daughters 49 

Fair  Rosamond 59 

Phillida  and  Corydon 69 

Fair  Margaret  and  Sweet  William 71 

Annan   Water 76 

The  BailifF's  Daughter  of  Islington 79 

Barbara  Allen's  Cruelty 82 

The  Douglas  Tragedy 84 

Young  Waters 89 

Flodden  Field 93 


Helen  of  Kirkconnell 97 


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Robin  Hood  and  Allen-a-Dale lOO 

Robin  Hood  and  Guy  of  Gisborne 1 06 

Robin  Hood's  Death  and  Burial 119 

The  Twa  Corbies 124 

Waly,   Waly,   Love  be  Bonny 126 

The  Nut-brown  Maid 1 29 

The  Pause  Lover 148 

The  Mermaid 151 

The  Batde  of  Otterburn 154 

The  Lament  of  the  Border  Widow  .      , 169 

The  Banks  o*   Yarrow 171 

Hugh  of  Lincoln 176 

Sir  Patrick  Spens 180 


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31nttoDuctfon 


Goethcy  who  saw  so  many  things  with  such  clear- 
ness of  vision^  brought  out  the  charm  of  the  popular 
ballad  for  readers  of  a  later  day  in  his  remark 
that  the  value  of  these  songs  of  the  people  is  to  be 
found  in  the  fact  that  their  motives  are  drawn 
directly  from  nature ;  and  he  added^  that  in  the 
art  of  saying  things  compactly^  uneducated  men 
have  greater  skill  than  those  who  are  educated. 
It  is  certainly  true  that  no  kind  of  verse  is  so 
completely  out  of  the  atmosphere  of  modem  writing 
as  the  popular  ballad.  No  other  form  of  verse  has^ 
therefore t  in  so  great  a  degree ^  the  charm  of  fresh- 
ness. In  material,  treatment,  and  spirit,  these  bal- 
lads are  set  in  sharp  contrast  with   the  poetry  of 

[7] 


JIncrootutton 

the  hour.  They  deal  with  historical  events  or  inci- 
dentSj  with  local  traditions^  with  personal  advent- 
ure or  achievement.  They  are^  almost  without 
exception,  entirely  objective.  Contemporary  poetry  is, 
on  the  other  hand,  very  largely  subjective ;  and  even 
when  it  deals  with  events  or  incidents  it  invests 
them  to  such  a  degree  with  personal  emotion  and 
imagination,  it  so  modijies  and  colours  them  with 
temperamental  effects,  that  the  resulting  poem  is 
much  more  a  study  of  subjective  conditions  than  a 
picture  or  drama  of  objective  realities.  This  pro- 
jection of  tJie  inward  upon  the  outward  world,  in 
such  a  degree  that  the  dividing  line  between  the 
two  is  lost,  is  strikingly  illustrated  in  Maeterlinck's 
plays.  Nothing  could  be  in  sharper  contrast,  for 
instance,  than  the  famous  ballad  of  "  The  Hunting 
of  the  Cheviot''  and  Maeterlinck's  ^^ Princess  Ma- 
leine."  There  is  no  atmosphere,  in  a  strict  use  of 
the  word,  in  the  spirited  and  com.pact  account  of 
the  famous  contention  between  the  Percies  and  the 
Douglases,  of  which  Sir  Philip  Sidney  said  ^' that 
I  found  not  7ny  heart  moved  more  than  with  a 
Trumpet."     It  is  a  breathless,  rushing  narrative  of 

[8] 


3Intromiction 

a  swift  succession  of  events^  told  with  the  most 
straightforward  simplicity.  In  the  *^  Princess  Ma- 
leine^'  on  the  other  hand^  the  narrative  is  so 
charged  with  subjective  feelings  the  world  in  which 
the  action  takes  place  is  so  deeply  tinged  with  lights 
that  never  rested  on  any  actual  landscape^  that  all 
sense  of  reality  is  lost.  The  play  depends  for  its 
effect  mainly  upon  atmosphere.  Certain  very  definite 
impressions  are  produced  with  singular  power^  but . 
there  is  no  clear,  clean  stamping  of  occurrences  on 
the  mind.  The  imagination  is  skilfully  awakened 
and  made  to  do  the  work  of  observation. 

The  note  of  the  popular  ballad  is  its  objectivity ; 
it  not  only  takes  us  out  of  doors,  but  it  also  takes 
us  out  of  the  individual  consciousness.  The  manner 
is  entirely  subordinated  to  the  matter;  the  poet,  if 
there  was  a  poet  in  the  case,  obliterates  himself. 
What  we  get  is  a  definite  report  of  events  which 
have  taken  place,  not  a  study  of  a  man's  mind  nor 
an  account  of  a  man's  feelings.  The  true  balladist 
is  never  introspective;  he  is  concerned  not  with 
himself  but  with  his  story.  There  is  no  self-dis- 
closure in  his  song.      To  the  mood  of  Senancour  and 

[9] 


KlntroDuction 

Amiel  he  was  a  stranger.  Neither  he  nor  the  men 
to  whom  he  recited  or  sang  would  have  understood 
that  mood.  They  were  primarily  and  tmrejlectively 
absorbed  in  the  world  outside  of  themselves.  They 
saw  far  more  than  they  meditated ;  they  recorded 
far  more  than  they  moralized.  The  popular  ballads 
arey  as  a  rule,  entirely  free  from  didacticism  in  any 
form;  that  is  one  of  the  main  sources  of  their  un- 
failing charm.  They  show  not  only  a  childlike 
curiosity  about  the  doings  of  the  day  and  the  things 
that  befall  men,  but  a  childlike  indijference  to  moral 
inference  and  justification.  The  bloodier  the  fray 
the  better  for  ballad  purposes ;  no  one  feels  the 
necessity  of  apology  either  for  ruthless  aggression 
or  for  useless  blood-letting ;  the  scene  is  reported 
as  it  was  presented  to  the  eye  of  the  spectator,  not 
to  his  moralizing  faculty.  He  is  expected  to  see 
and  to  sing,  not  to  scrutinize  and  meditate.  In 
those  rare  cases  in  which  a  moral  inference  is 
drawn,  it  is  always  so  obvious  and  elementary 
that  it  gives  the  impression  of  having  been  fastened 
on  at  the  end  of  the  song  in  deference  to  ecclesias- 
tical rather  than  popular  feeling. 

[io] 


3|ntroOuctton 

The  social  and  intellectual  conditions  which  fos- 
tered self-unconsciousness,  —  interest  in  things ^  inci- 
dents, and  adventures  rather  than  in  moods  and 
inward  experiences,  —  and  the  unmoral  or  non- 
moralizing  attitude  towards  events,  fostered  also 
that  delightful  natvet^  which  contributes  greatly  to 
the  charm  of  many  of  the  best  ballads ;  a  naivete 
which  often  heightens  the  pathos,  and,  at  times, 
softens  it  with  touches  of  apparently  unconscious 
humour;  the  naivete  of  the  child  which  has  in  it 
something  of  the  freshness  cf  a  wild  flower,  and  yet 
has  also  a  wonderful  instinct  for  making  the  heart  of 
the  matter  plain.  This  quality  has  almost  entirely 
disappeared  from  contemporary  verse  among  culti- 
vated races ;  one  must  go  to  the  peasants  of  remote 
parts  of  the  Continent  to  discover  even  a  trace  of  its 
presence.  It  has  a  real,  but  short-lived  charm,  like 
the  freshness  which  shines  on  meadow  and  garden 
in  the  brief  dawn  which  hastens  on  to  day. 

This  frank,  direct  play  of  thought  and  feeling 
on  an  incident,  or  series  of  incidents,  compensates 
for  the  absence  of  a  more  perfect  art  in  the  bal- 
lads;   using  the  word  "art"  in  its  true  sense  as  in- 


idncroDuctton 

eluding  complete y  adequate,  and  beautiful  handling 
of  subject-matter,  and  masterly  working  out  of  its 
possibilities.  These  popular  songs,  so  dear  to  the 
hearts  of  the  generations  on  whose  lips  they  were 
fashioned,  and  to  all  who  care  for  the  fresh  note, 
the  direct  word,  the  unrestrained  emotion,  rarely 
touch  the  highest  points  of  poetic  achievement.  Their 
charm  lies,  not  in  their  perfection  of  form,  but  in 
their  spontaneity,  sincerity,  and  graphic  power.  They 
are  not  rivers  of  song,  wide,  deep,  and  swift ;  they 
are  rather  cool,  clear  springs  among  the  hills.  In 
the  reactions  against  sophisticated  poetry  which  set 
in  from  time  to  time,  the  popular  ballad  —  the  true 
folk-song — has  often  been  exalted  at  the  expense 
of  other  forms  of  verse.  It  is  idle  to  attempt  to 
arrange  the  various  forms  of  poetry  in  an  order 
of  absolute  values ;  it  is  enough  that  each  has  its 
own  quality,  and,  therefore,  its  own  value.  The 
drama,  the  epic,  the  ballad,  the  lyric,  each  strikes 
its  note  in  the  complete  expression  of  human  emo- 
tion and  experience.  Each  belongs  to  a  particular 
stage  of  development,  and  each  has  the  authority 
and    the    enduring    charm    which    attach    to    every 

[12] 


3(|ntroOtt(tton 

authentic  utterance  of  the  spirit  of  man  under  the 
conditions  of  life. 

In  this  wide  range  of  human  expression  the  ballad 
follows  the  epic  as  a  kind  of  aftermath ;  a  second 
and  scattered  harvest^  springing  without  regularity 
or  nurture  out  of  a  rich  and  unexhausted  soil.  The 
epic  fastens  upon  some  event  of  such  commanding 
importance  tliat  it  marks  a  main  current  of  history ; 
some  story ^  historic^  or  mythologic ;  some  incident 
susceptible  of  extended  narrative  treatment.  It  is 
always^  in  its  popular  form^  a  matter  of  growth  ; 
it  is  direct,  simple,  free  from  didacticism;  repre- 
senting, as  Aristotle  says,  **a  single  action,  entire 
and  complete."  It  subordinates  character  to  action; 
it  delights  in  episode  and  dialogue;  it  is  content 
to  tell  the  story  as  a  story,  and  leave  the  moraliza- 
tion  to  hearers  or  readers.  The  popular  ballad  is  so 
closely  related  to  the  popular  epic  that  it  may  be 
said  to  reproduce  its  qualities  and  characteristics 
within  a  narrower  compass,  and  on  a  smaller  scale. 
It  also  is  a  piece  of  the  memory  of  the  people,  or  a 
creation  of  the  imagination  of  the  people;  but  the 
tradition  or  fact  which  it  preserves  is  of  local,  rather 

['3] 


3|ntroDuction 

than  national  importance.  It  is  indifferent  to  nice 
distinctions  and  delicate  gradations  or  shadings ;  its 
power  springs  from  its  directness,  vigour,  and  sim- 
plicity. It  is  often  entirely  occupied  with  the  nar- 
ration or  description  of  a  single  episode ;  it  has  no 
room  for  dialogue,  but  it  often  secures  the  effect  of 
the  dialogue  by  its  unconventional  freedom  of  phrase, 
and  sometimes  by  the  introduction  of  brief  and  com- 
pact charge  and  denial,  question  and  reply.  Some- 
times the  incidents  upon  which  the  ballad  makers 
fastened,  have  a  unity  or  connection  with  each  other 
which  hints  at  a  complete  story.  The  ballads  which 
deal  with  Robin  Hood  are  so  numerous  and  so  closely 
related  that  they  constantly  suggest,  not  only  the  pos- 
sibility, but  the  probability  of  epic  treatment.  It  is 
surprising  that  the  richness  of  the  material,  and  its 
notable  illustrative  quality,  did  not  inspire  some 
earlier  Chaucer  to  combine  the  incidents  in  a  sus- 
tained narrative.  But  the  epic  poet  did  not  appear^ 
and  the  most  representative  of  English  popular  heroes 
remains  the  central  figure  in  a  series  of  detached 
episodes  and  adventures,  preserved  in  a  long  line  of 
disconnected  ballads. 

[>4] 


3|ntrot>uctton 

This  apparent  arrest,  in  the  ballad  stage,  of  a 
story  which  seemed  destined  to  become  an  epic, 
naturally  suggests  the  vexed  question  of  the  author- 
ship of  the  popular  ballads.  They  are  in  a  very 
real  sense  the  songs  of  the  people ;  they  make  no 
claim  to  individual  authorship;  on  the  contrary, 
the  inference  of  what  may  be  called  community 
authorship  is,  in  many  instances,  irresistible.  They 
are  the  product  of  a  social  condition  which,  so  to 
speak,  holds  song  of  this  kind  in  solution ;  of  an 
age  in  which  improvisation,  singing,  and  dancing 
are  the  most  natural  and  familiar  forms  of  expres- 
sion. They  deal  almost  without  exception  with  mat- 
ters which  belong  to  the  community  memory  or 
imagination;  they  constantly  reappear  with  varia- 
tions so  noticeable  as  to  indicate  free  and  common 
handling  of  themes  of  wide  local  interest.  All  this 
is  true  of  the  popular  ballad ;  but  all  this  does  not 
decisively  settle  the  question  of  authorship.  What 
share  did  the  community  have  in  the  making  of 
these  songs,  and  w/iat  share  fell  to  individual 
singers  f 

Herder,  whose  conception  of  the  origin  and  function 
t>5] 


31ntr^Dttction 

of  literature  was  so  vitalizing  in  the  general  aridity 
of  thinktjtg  about  the  middle  of  the  last  century^ 
and  who  did  even  more  for  ballad  verse  in  Ger- 
many than  Bishop  Percy  did  in  England^  laid 
emphasis  almost  exclusively  on  community  author- 
ship. His  prof ound  instinct  for  reality  in  all  fonns 
of  arty  his  deep  feeling  for  life^  and  the  immense 
importance  he  attached  to  spontaneity  and  uncon- 
sciousness in  the  truest  productivity  made  com- 
munity authorship  not  only  attractive  but  inevitable 
to  him.  In  his  pronounced  reaction  against  the 
superficial  ideas  of  literature  so  widely  held  in  the 
Germany  of  his  time^  he  espoused  the  conception 
of  community  authorship  as  the  only  possible  ex- 
planation of  the  epicSy  balladSy  and  other  folk-songs. 
In  nature  and  popular  life,  or  universal  experience^ 
he  found  the  rich  sources  of  the  poetry  whose  charm 
he  felt  so  deeply ^  and  whose  power  and  beauty  he 
did  so  much  to  reveal  to  his  contemporaries.  Genius 
and  fiature  are  magical  words  with  him,  because 
they  suggested  such  depths  of  being  under  all  forms 
of  expression;   such  unity  of  the  whole  being  of  a 

race  in  its  thought,  its  emotion,  and  its  action;  such 

£.6] 


3|ntroDuctton 

entire  unconsciousness  of  self  or  of  formulated  aim, 
and  such  spontaneity  of  spirit  and  speech.  The  Ian- 
gttage  of  those  times,  when  words  had  not  yet  been 
divided  into  nobles,  middle-class,  and  plebeiatis,  was, 
he  said,  the  richest  for  poetical  purposes.  "  Our 
tongue,  compared  with  the  idiom  of  the  savage^ 
seems  adapted  rather  for  reflection  than  for  the 
senses  or  imagination.  The  rhythm  of  popular  verse 
is  so  delicate,  so  rapid,  so  precise,  that  it  is  no  easy 
matter  to  detect  it  with  our  eyes;  but  do  not  imagine 
it  to  have  been  equally  difficult  for  those  living 
populations  who  listened  to,  instead  of  reading  it ; 
who  were  accustomed  to  the  sound  of  it  from  their 
infancy;  who  themselves  sang  it,  and  whose  ear 
had  been  formed  by  its  cadence.''  This  conception 
of  poetry  as  arising  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  and 
taking  form  on  their  lips  is  still  more  definitely 
and  strikingly  expressed  in  two  sentences,  which 
let  us  into  the  heart  of  Herder's  philosophy  of 
poetry:  ** Poetry  in  those  happy  days  lived  in  the 
ears  of  the  people,  on  the  lips  and  in  the  harps  of 
living  bards ;  it  sang  of  history,  of  the  events  of  the 
day,  of  mysteries,  miracles,  and  signs.  It  was  the 
•  [«7] 


31ntroDuction 

Jlower  of  a  nation's  character^  language^  and  coun- 
try;  of  its  occupations y  its  prejudices ^  its  passions , 
its  aspirations y  and  its  soul^  In  these  words ^  at 
once  comprehensive  and  vague^  after  the  manner  of 
Herder^  we  find  ourselves  face  to  face  with  that 
conception  not  only  of  popular  song  in  all  its  forms j 
but  with  literature  as  a  whole,  which  has  revolu- 
tionized literary  study  in  this  century,  and  revital- 
ized it  as  well.  For  Herder  was  a  m,an  of  prophetic 
instinct ;  he  sometimes  felt  m,ore  clearly  than  he 
saw ;  he  divined  where  he  could  not  reach  results 
by  analysis.  He  was  often  vague,  fragmentary, 
and  inconclusive,  like  all  men  of  his  type  ;  but  he  had 
a  genius  for  getting  at  the  heart  of  things.  His 
statements  often  need  qualification,  but  he  is  almost 
always  on  the  right  track.  When  he  says  that  tJte 
great  traditions,  in  which  both  the  memory  and  the 
imagination  of  a  race  were  engaged,  and  which 
were  still  living  in  the  mouths  of  the  people,  ^^  of 
themselves  took  on  poetic  form,''  he  is  using  lan- 
guage which  is  too  general  to  convey  a  definite 
impression  of  method,  but  he  is  probably  suggesting 

the    deepest    truth    with    regard    to    these  popular 

[,8] 


3!ntroDuction 

stories.  They  actually  were  of  community  origin; 
they  actually  were  common  property;  they  were 
given  a  great  variety  of  forms  by  a  great  number 
of  persons ;  the  forms  which  have  come  down  to 
us  are  very  likely  the  survivors  of  a  kind  of  in- 
formal competition,  which  went  on  for  years  at  the 
fireside  and  at  the  festivals  of  a  whole  country 
side. 

Burger^  whose  **  Lenore "  is  one  of  the  most 
widely  known  of  modem  ballads,  held  the  same 
view  of  the  origin  of  popular  song,  and  was  even 
more  definite  in  his  confession  of  faith  than  Herder. 
He  declared  in  the  most  uncompromising  terms  that 
all  real  poetry  must  have  a  popular  origin  ;  "  can  be 
and  must  be  of  the  people,  for  that  is  the  seal  of 
its  perfection.''  And  he  comments  on  the  delight 
with  which  he  has  listened,  in  village  street  and 
home,  to  unwritten  songs ;  the  poetry  which  finds  its 
way  in  quiet  rivulets  to  the  remotest  peasant  home. 
In  like  manner,  Hilhu  Vacaresco  overheard  the  songs 
of  the  Roumanian  people ;  hiding  in  the  maize  to 
catch  the  reaping  songs  ;  listening  at  spinning  par- 
ties,  at  festivals,    at   death-beds,    at   taverns ;    tak- 

[■9] 


3|ntroOttction 

ing  the  songs  down  from  the  lips  of  peasant  wonteny 
fortune-tellers,  gypsies,  and  all  manner  of  humble 
folk  who  were  the  custodians  of  this  vagrant  com- 
munity verse.  We  liave  passed  so  entirely  out  of 
the  song-making  period,  and  literature  has  become  to 
us  so  exclusively  the  work  of  a  professional  class, 
that  we  fiftd  it  difficult  to  imagine  the  intellectual 
and  social  conditions  which  fostered  improvisation 
on  a  great  scale,  and  trained  the  ear  of  great  popu- 
lations to  the  music  of  spoken  poetry.  It  is  almost 
impossible  for  us  to  disassociate  literature  from. 
writing.  There  is  still,  however,  a  considerable  vol- 
ume of  unwritten  literature  in  the  world  in  the 
form  of  stories,  songs,  proverbs,  and  pithy  phrases ; 
a  literature  handed  down  in  large  part  from,  earlier 
times,  but  still  receiving  additions  from,  contempo- 
rary men  and  women. 

This  unwritten  literature  is  to  be  found,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say,  almost  exclusively  among 
country  people  remote  from  towns,  and  whose  mental 
attitude  and  community  feeling  reproduce,  in  a  way, 
the  conditions  under  which  the  English  and  Scotch 
ballads  were  originally  composed.      The  Roumanian 

[20] 


3|ntroimction 

peasants  sing  their  songs  upon  every  occasion  of 
domestic  or  local  interest ;  and  sowing  and  har- 
vesting, birth,  christening,  marriage,  the  burial,  — 
these  notable  events  in  the  life  of  the  country  side 
are  all  celebrated  by  unknown  poets ;  or,  rather,  by 
improvisers  who  give  definite  form  to  sentiments, 
phrases,  and  words  which  are  on  many  lips.  The 
Russian  peasant  tells  his  stories  as  they  were  told 
to  him;  those  heroic  epics  whose  life  is  believed^ 
in  some  cases,  to  date  back  at  least  a  thousand 
years.  These  great  popular  stories  form  a  kind 
of  sacred  inheritance  bequeathed  by  one  generation 
to  another  as  a  possession  of  the  memory,  and  are 
almost  entirely  unrelated  to  the  written  literature 
of  the  country.  Miss  Hapgood  tells  a  very  inter- 
esting  story  of  a  government  official,  stationed  on  the 
western  shore  of  Lake  On/ga,  who  became  so  ab- 
sorbed in  the  search  for  this  literature  of  the  people 
that  he  followed  singers  and  reciters  from  place  to 
place,  eager  to  learn  from  their  lips  the  most  widely 
known  of  these  folk  tales.  On  such  an  expedition  of 
discovery  he  found  himself,  one  stormy  night,  on  an 
island  in  the  lake.     The  hut  of  refuge  was  already 


31tttrotittction 

full  of  stormbound  peasants  when  he  entered.  Hav- 
ing made  himself  some  tea,  and  spread  his  blanket 
in  a  vacant  place,  he  fell  asleep.  He  was  presently 
awakened  by  a  m,urmur  of  recurring  sounds.  Sit- 
ting up,  he  found  the  group  of  peasants  hanging  on 
the  words  of  an  old  man,  of  kindly  face,  expressive 
eyes,  and  melodious  voice,  from  whose  lips  flowed 
a  m,arvellous  song ;  grave  and  gay  by  turns,  monoto- 
nous and  passionate  in  succession ;  but  wonderfully 
fresh,  picturesque,  and  fascinating.  The  listener 
soon  became  aware  that  he  was  hearing,  for  the 
first  time,  the  famous  story  of  '^  Sadko,  the  Mer- 
chant of  Novgorod.''  It  was  like  being  present  at 
the  birth  of  a  piece  of  literature  ! 

The  fact  that  unwritten  songs  and  stories  still 
exist  in  great  numbers  among  rem.ote  country-folk 
of  our  own  time,  and  that  additions  are  still  m.ade 
to  them,  help  us  to  understand  the  probable  origin 
of  otcr  own  popular  ballads,  and  what  community 
authorship  may  really  mean.  To  put  ourselves,  even 
in  thought,  in  touch  with  the  ballad-making  period 
in  English  and  Scotch  history,  we  must  dismiss 
from   our  minds    all  modem    ideas   of  authorship; 

["3 


3Introliuction 

all  notions  of  individual  origination  and  ownership 
of  any  form  of  words.  Professor  ten  Brink  tells 
us  that  in  the  ballad-making  age  there  was  no  pro- 
duction ;  there  was  only  reproduction.  There  was 
a  stock  of  traditions^  memories^  experiences^  held  in 
common  by  large  populations^  in  constant  use  an  the 
lips  of  numberless  persons ;  told  and  retold  in  many 
formSf  with  countless  changes,  variations,  afid  modt- 
fications ;  without  conscious  artistic  purpose,  with  no 
sense  of  personal  control  or  possession,  with  no  con- 
structive aim  either  in  plot  or  treatment ;  no  com- 
position in  the  modem  sense  of  the  term.  Such  a 
mass  of  poetic  material  in  the  possession  of  a  large 
community  was,  in  a  sense,  fluid,  and  ran  into  a 
thousand  forms  almost  without  direction  or  premedi- 
tation. Constant  use  of  such  rich  material  gave  a 
poetic  turn  of  thought  and  speech  to  countless  per- 
sons who,  under  other  conditions,  would  have  given 
no  sign  of  the  possession  of  the  fcuulty  of  imagina- 
tion. 

There  was  not  only  the  stimulus  to  the  faculty 
which  sees  events  and  occurrences  with  the  eyes  of 
the  imagination,    but    there   was   also   constant   and 

[»3] 


3|ntroBttction 

familiar  use  of  the  language  of  poetry.  To  speak 
metrically  or  rhythmically  is  no  difficult  matter  if 
one  is  in  the  atmosphere  or  habit  of  verse-making ; 
and  there  is  nothing  surprising  either  in  the  feats 
of  memory  or  of  improvisation  performed  by  the 
minstrels  and  balladists  of  the  old  time.  The  fac- 
ulty of  improvising  was  easily  developed  and  was 
very  generally  used  by  people  of  all  classes.  This 
facility  is  still  possessed  by  rural  populations^  among 
whom  songs  are  still  composed  as  they  are  stingy 
each  member  of  the  company  contributing  a  new 
verse  or  a  variation^  suggested  by  local  conditions^ 
of  a  well-known  stanza.  When  to  the  possession  of 
a  m,ass  of  traditions  and  stories  and  of  facility  of 
improvisation  is  added  the  habit  of  singing  and 
dancings  it  is  not  difficult  to  reconstruct  in  our  own 
thought  the  conditions  under  which  popular  poetry 
came  into  beings  nor  to  understand  in  what  sense  a 
community  can  make  its  ow7t  songs.  In  the  brave 
days  when  ballads  were  made^  the  rustic  peoples 
were  not  mute,  as  they  are  to-day ;  nor  sady  as  they 
have  becom.e  i^i  so  many  parts  of  England.  They 
sang  and  they  danced  by  instinct  and  as  an  expres- 

[^4] 


3nntroDuttt0n 

sion  of  social  feeling.  Originally  the  ballads  were 
not  only  sung,  but  they  gave  measure  to  the  dance ; 
they  grew  from  mouth  to  mouth  in  the  very  act  of 
dattcing;  individual  dancers  adding  verse  to  verse, 
and  the  frequent  refrain  coming  in  as  a  kind  of 
chorus.  Gesture  and,  to  a  certain  extent,  acting 
would  naturally  accompany  so  free  and  general  an 
expression  of  community  feeling.  Tltere  was  no 
poet,  because  all  were  poets.  To  quote  Professor  ten 
Brink  once  more  :  — 

"Song  and  playing  were  cultivated  by  peasants, 
and  even  by  freedmen  and  serfs.  At  beer-feasts 
the  harp  went  from  hand  to  hand.  Herein  lies 
the  essential  difference  between  that  age  and  our 
own.  The  result  of  poetical  activity  was  not  the 
property  and  was  not  the  production  of  a  single 
person,  but  of  the  community.  The  work  of  the 
individual  endured  only  as  long  as  its  delivery 
lasted.  He  gained  personal  distinction  only  as  a 
virtuoso.  The  permanent  elements  of  what  he  pre- 
sented, the  material,  the  ideas,  even  the  style  and 
metre,  already  existed.  The  work  of  the  singer 
was  only  a  ripple  in  the  stream  of  national  poetry. 


31ntro^ttctwn 

Who  can  say  how  much  the  individual  contributed 
to  it,  or  where  in  his  poetical  recitation  memory 
ceased  and  creative  impulse  began !  In  any  case 
the  work  of  the  individual  lived  on  only  as  the 
ideal  possession  of  the  aggregate  body  of  the 
people,  and  it  soon  lost  the  stamp  of  originality. 
In  view  of  such  a  development  of  poetry,  we 
must  assume  a  time  when  the  collective  conscious- 
ness of  a  people  or  race  is  paramount  in  its  unity; 
when  the  intellectual  life  of  each  is  nourished 
from  the  same  treasury  of  views  and  associations, 
of  myths  and  sagas;  when  similar  interests  stir 
each  breast;  and  the  ethical  judgment  of  all  ap- 
plies itself  to  the  same  standard.  In  such  an 
age  the  form  of  poetical  expression  will  also  be 
common  to  all,  necessarily  solemn,  earnest,  and 
simple," 

When  the  conditions  which  produced  the  popular 
ballads  become  clear  to  the  imagination,  their  depth 
of  rootage,  not  only  in  the  com^munity  life  but  in 
the  community  love,  becomes  also  clear.  We  under- 
stand the  charm  which  these  old  songs  have  for  us 
of  a  later  age,  and  the  spell  which  they  cast   upon 

[26] 


3IntroDuttton 

men  and  women  who  knew  the  secret  of  their  birth ; 
we  understand  why  the  minstrels  of  the  time^  when 
popular  poetry  was  in  its  best  estate^  were  held  in 
such  honour,  why  Taillefer  sang  the  song  of  Roland 
at  the  head  of  the  advancing  Normans  on  the  day 
of  Hastings,  and  why  good  Bishop  Aldhelm,  when 
he  wanted  to  get  the  ears  of  his  people,  stood  on 
the  bridge  and  sang  a  ballad!  These  old  songs 
were  the  flowering  of  the  imagination  of  the  people  ; 
they  drew  their  life  as  directly  from  the  general 
experience,  the  common  memory,  the  universal  feel- 
ings, as  did  the  Greek  dramas  in  those  primitive 
times,  when  they  were  part  of  rustic  festivity  and 
worship.  The  popular  ballads  have  passed  away 
with  the  conditions  which  produced  them.  Modem 
poets  have,  in  several  instances,  written  ballads  of 
striking  picturesqueness  and  power,  but  as  unlike 
the  ballad  of  popular  origin  as  the  world  of  to-day 
is  unlike  the  world  in  which  ^^  Chevy  Chase'*  was 
first  sung.  These  modem  ballads  are  not  necessarily 
better  or  worse  than  their  predecessors ;  but  they  are 
necessarily  different.  It  is  idle  to  exalt  the  wild 
flower  at  the  expense  of  the  garden  flower  ;  each  has 

['7] 


3itttronuctton 

its  fragrance y    its    beauty ^    its   sentiment ;    and   the 
world  is  wide! 

In  the  selection  of  tJie  ballads  which  appear  in 
this  volume^  no  attempt  has  been  made  to  follow  a 
chronological  order  or  to  enforce  a  rigid  priticiple 
of  selection  of  any  kind.  The  aim  has  been  to 
bring  within  moderate  compass  a  collection  of  these 
songs  of  the  people  which  should  fairly  represent  the 
range,  the  descriptive  felicity,  the  dramatic  power, 
and  the  genuine  poetic  feeling  of  a  body  of  verse 
which  is  still,  it  is  to  be  feared^  unfamiliar  to 
a  large  number  of  those  to  whom  it  would  bring 
refreshment  a^id  delight, 

HAMILTON  WRIGHT  MABIE. 


[28] 


God  prosper  long  our  noble  king. 

Our  liffes  and  safetyes  all ; 
A  woefiill  hunting  once  there  did 

In  Chevy-Chace  befall. 

To  drive  the  deere  with  hound  and  home, 

Erie  Percy  took  his  way ; 
The  child  may  rue  that  is  unborne 

The  hunting  of  that  day. 

The  stout  Erie  of  Northumberland 

A  vow  to  God  did  make, 
His  pleasure  in  the  Scottish  woods 

Three  summers  days  to  take ; 
£29] 


IBallati  of  C^et)^  C^iace 

The  bow-men  mustered  on  the  hills. 

Well  able  to  endure ; 
Theire  backsides  all,  with  speciall  care. 

That  day  were  guarded  sure. 

The  hounds  ran  swiftly  through  the  woods, 

The  nimble  deere  to  take, 
That  with  their  cryes  the  hills  and  dales 

An  eccho  shrill  did  make. 

Lord  Percy  to  the  quarry  went. 

To  view  the  tender  deere ; 
Quoth  he,  "  Erie  Douglas  promised 

This  day  to  meet  me  heere ; 

"  But  if  I  thought  he  wold  not  come, 

Noe  longer  wold  I  stay.*' 
With  that,  a  brave  younge  gentleman 

Thus  to  the  Erie  did  say : 

"  Loe,  yonder  doth  Erie  Douglas  come. 

His  men  in  armour  bright ; 
Full  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres. 

All  marching  in  our  sight. 
[31] 


The  cheefest  harts  in  Chevy-Chace 

To  kill  and  beare  away  : 
These  tydings  to  Erie  Douglas  came, 

In  Scotland  where  he  lay. 

Who  sent  Erie  Percy  present  word. 
He  wold  prevent  his  sport; 

The  English  Erie  not  fearing  that, 
Did  to  the  woods  resort. 

With  fifteen  hundred  bow-men  bold, 

All  chosen  men  of  might. 
Who  knew  full  well  in  time  of  neede 

To  ayme  their  shafts  arright. 

The  gallant  greyhounds  swiftly  ran. 
To  chase  the  fallow  deere ; 

On  Munday  they  began  to  hunt. 
Ere  day-light  did  appeare ; 

And  long  before  high  noone  they  had 
An  hundred  fat  buckes  slaine ; 

Then  having  din'd,  the  drovyers  went 
To  rouze  the  deare  againe. 
[3°] 


"All  men  of  pleasant  Tivydale, 

Fast  by  the  river  Tweede :  ** 
"  O  cease  your  sport,"  Erie  Percy  said, 

"And  take  your  bowes  with  speede. 

"And  now  with  me,  my  countrymen. 

Your  courage  forth  advance ; 
For  never  was  there  champion  yett 

In  Scotland  or  in  France, 

"  That  ever  did  on  horsebacke  come. 

But,  if  my  hap  it  were, 
I  durst  encounter  man  for  man, 

With  him  to  breake  a  spere.*' 

Erie  Douglas  on  his  milke-white  steede. 

Most  like  a  baron  bold. 
Rode  formost  of  his  company. 

Whose  armour  shone  like  gold. 

"  Show  me,"  sayd  hee,  "  whose  men  you  bee, 

That  hunt  soe  boldly  heere. 
That,  without  my  consent,  doe  chase 

And  kill  my  fallow-deere." 
[32] 


ii_u«  m><ii "^^ 


^^^agft^fc^^h^B^^fcja^iarf^  \f\  n   nn    <i   n  n  lai^i^i^iAidfc^ 


15allaD  of  Ctjfbr  Ctiace 

The  man  that  first  did  answer  make 

Was  noble  Percy  hee ; 
Who  sayd,  "  Wee  list  not  to  declare, 

Nor  shew  whose  men  wee  bee. 

"  Yet  will  wee  spend  our  deerest  blood, 
Thy  cheefest  harts  to  slay;" 

Then  Douglas  swore  a  solempne  oathe, 
And  thus  in  rage  did  say ; 

"  Ere  thus  I  will  out-braved  bee, 

One  of  us  two  shall  dye : 
I  know  thee  well,  an  eric  thou  art ; 

Lord  Percy,  soc  am  I. 

"  But  trust  me,  Percy,  pittyc  it  were. 

And  great  offence,  to  kill 
Any  of  these  our  guiltlesse  men. 

For  they  have  done  no  ill. 

"  Let  thou  and  I  the  battell  tryc. 

And  set  our  men  aside." 
"  Accurst  bee  he,"  Erie  Percy  sayd, 

"  By  whome  this  is  denyed." 
[33] 


Then  stept  a  gallant  squier  forth, 
Witherington  was  his  name. 

Who  said,  "  I  wold  not  have  it  told 
To  Henry  our  king  for  shame, 

"  That  ere  my  captaine  fought  on  foote. 

And  I  stood  looking  on : 
You  bee  two  erles,"  sayd  Witherington, 

"  And  I  a  squier  alone. 

"  He  doe  the  best  that  doe  I  may. 
While  I  have  power  to  stand; 

While  I  have  power  to  weeld  my  sword, 
He  fight  with  hart  and  hand." 

Our  English  archers  bent  their  bowes. 
Their  harts  were  good  and  trew ; 

Att  the  first  flight  of  arrowes  sent. 
Full  four-score  Scots  they  slew. 

[Yet  bides  Earl  Douglas  on  the  bent. 
As  Chieftain  stout  and  good. 

As  valiant  Captain,  all  unmoved 
The  shock  he  firmly  stood. 
[34] 


KSallaD  of  Cl^eb^  Ctiace 

His  host  he  parted  had  in  three, 

As  Leader  ware  and  try*d, 
And  soon  his  spearmen  on  their  foes 

Bare  down  on  every  side. 

Throughout  the  English  archery 
They  dealt  full  many  a  wound ; 

But  still  our  valiant  Englishmen 
All  firmly  kept  their  ground. 

And  throwing  strait  their  bows  away, 
They  grasp'd  their  swords  so  bright : 

And  now  sharp  blows,  a  heavy  shower, 
On  shields  and  helmets  light.] 

They  clos*d  full  fast  on  cvcryc  side, 
Noe  slacknes  there  was  found ; 

And  many  a  gallant  gentleman 
Lay  gasping  on  the  ground. 

O  Christ !  it  was  a  griefe  to  sec, 

And  likewise  for  to  heare. 
The  cries  of  men  lying  in  their  gore. 

And  scattered  here  and  there. 
[35] 


At  last  these  two  stout  erles  did  meet, 
Like  captaines  of  great  might; 

Like  lyons  wood  they  layd  on  lode, 
And  made  a  cruell  fight. 

They  fought,  untill  they  both  did  sweat. 
With  swords  of  tempered  Steele  ; 

Until  the  blood,  like  drops  of  rain, 
They  trickling  downe  did  feele. 

"Yeeld  thee,  Lord  Percy,"  Douglas  sayd 

"In  faith  I  will  thee  bringe. 
Where  thou  shalt  high  advanced  bee 

By  James  our  Scottish  king. 

"  Thy  ransom  I  will  freely  give. 

And  thus  report  of  thee. 
Thou  art  the  most  couragious  knight 

That  ever  I  did  see." 

"  Noe,  Douglas,"  quoth  Erie  Percy  then, 

"  Thy  proffer  I  doe  scorne ; 
I  will  not  yeelde  to  any  Scott, 

That  ever  yett  was  borne." 
[36] 


.i>^Ba^M<li<tirW%  tCwrt   ftrt  rti 


-r 


-^v^ 


;l 


M^ 


^<^^*^.% 
ri^  %^-^ 


Ballao  of  C^ebi?  C^iate 

With  that,  there  came  an  arrow  keene 

Out  of  an  English  bow, 
Which  struck  Erie  Douglas  to  the  heart, 

A  deepe  and  deadlye  blow : 

Who  never  spake  more  words  than  these, 
"  Fight  on,  my  merry  men  all ; 

For  why,  my  life  is  at  an  end : 
Lord  Percy  sees  my  fall." 

Then  leaving  lifFe,  Erie  Percy  tooke 

The  dead  man  by  the  hand ; 
And  said,  "  Erie  Douglas,  for  thy  life 

Wold  I  had  lost  my  land ! 

"  O  Christ !  my  vcrry  hart  doth  bleed 

With  sorrow  for  thy  sake ; 
For  sure,  a  more  renowned  knight 

Mischance  cold  never  take." 

A  knight  amongst  the  Scotts  there  was. 
Which  saw  Erie  Douglas  dye. 

Who  streight  in  wrath  did  vow  revenge 
Upon  the  Lord  Percye ; 
[37] 


Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye  was  he  caird, 
Who,  with  a  spere  most  bright, 

Well^  mounted  on  a  gallant  steed. 
Ran  fiercely  through  the  fight ; 

And  past  the  English  archers  all. 

Without  all  dread  or  feare. 
And  through  Earl  Percyes  body  then 

He  thrust  his  hatefull  spere 

With  such  a  vehement  force  and  might 

He  did  his  body  gore. 
The  speare  ran  through  the  other  side 

A  large  cloth-yard,  and  more. 

So  thus  did  both  these  nobles  dye, 
Whose  courage  none  could  staine ; 

An  English  archer  then  perceiv'd 
The  noble  erle  was  slaine. 

He  had  a  bow  bent  in  his  hand, 

Made  of  a  trusty  tree  ; 
An  arrow  of  a  cloth-yard  long 

Up  to  the  head  drew  hee. 
[38] 


HBallaD  of  Ctiebp  €}^au 

Against  Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 

So  right  the  shaft  he  sett. 
The  grey  goose-wing  that  was  thereon 

In  his  harts  bloode  was  wett. 

This  fight  did  last  from  breake  of  day 

Till  setting  of  the  sun  ; 
For  when  they  rung  the  evening  bell, 

The  battel  scarce  was  done. 

With  stout  Erie  Percy,  there  was  slaine. 

Sir  John  of  Egerton, 
Sir  Robert  RatcHff,  and  Sir  John, 

Sir  James,  that  bold  Baron. 

And  with  Sir  George  and  stout  Sir  James, 
Both  knights  of  good  account. 

Good  Sir  Ralph  Rabby  there  was  slaine. 
Whose  prowesse  did  surmount. 

For  Witherington  needs  must  I  wayle. 

As  one  in  doleful  dumpes ; 
For  when  his  legs  were  smitten  off. 

He  fought  upon  his  stumpes. 
[391 


And  with  Erie  Douglas,  there  was  slaine 

Sir  Hugh  Mountgomerye, 
Sir  Charles  Murray,  that  from  the  feeld 

One  foote  wold  never  flee. 

Sir  Charles  Murray  of  Ratcliff,  too. 

His  sisters  sonne  was  hee ; 
Sir  David  Lamb,  so  well  esteemed. 

Yet  saved  cold  not  bee. 

And  the  Lord  Maxwell  in  like  case 

Did  with  Erie  Douglas  dye ; 
Of  twenty  hundred  Scottish  speres, 

Scarce  fifty-five  did  flye. 

Of  fifteen  hundred  Englishmen, 

Went  home  but  fifty-three ; 
The  rest  were  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace, 

Under  the  greene  wood  tree. 

Next  day  did  many  widowes  come, 

Their  husbands  to  bewayle ; 
They  washt  their  wounds  in  brinish  teares, 

But  all  wold  not  prevayle. 
[40] 


15alto  of  Ctiebi?  C^are 

Theyr  bodyes,  bathed  in  purple  blood, 

They  bore  with  them  away : 
They  kist  them  dead  a  thousand  times, 

Ere  they  were  cladd  in  clay. 

This  newes  was  brought  to  Eddenborrow, 
Where  Scotlands  king  did  raigne. 

That  brave  Erie  Douglas  suddenlyc 
Was  with  an  arrow  slaine. 

"  O  heavy  newes,"  King  James  did  say  ; 

"  Scottland  can  witnesse  bee, 
I  have  not  any  captaine  more 

Of  such  account  as  hee." 

Like  tydings  to  King  Henry  came, 

Within  as  short  a  space. 
That  Percy  of  Northumberland 

Was  slaine  in  Chevy-Chace. 

"  Now  God  be  with  him,"  said  our  king, 

"  Sith  it  will  noe  better  bee ; 
I  trust  I  have,  within  my  realme, 

Five  hundred  as  good  as  hee. 

[41] 


3r^e  £pore  ^oUem  llBallaD  of  Cfiebp  €f)ut 

"  Yett  shall  not  Scotts  nor  Scotland  say. 

But  I  will  vengeance  take, 
I'll  be  revenged  on  them  all. 

For  brave  Erie  Percyes  sake." 

This  vow  full  well  the  king  performed 

After,  at  Humbledowne ; 
In  one  day,  fifty  knights  were  slayne. 

With  lordes  of  great  renowne. 

And  of  the  rest,  of  small  account, 

Did  many  thousands  dye  : 
Thus  endeth  the  hunting  in  Chevy-Chace, 

Made  by  the  Erie  Percy. 

God  save  our  king,  and  bless  this  land 

In  plentye,  joy,  and  peace ; 
And  grant  henceforth,  that  foule  debate 

'Twixt  noblemen  may  cease  ! 


[4»] 


Mn^  Copl^mia  anD  tl^e  TSeggar^iHaiD 


I  READ  that  once  in  AfFrica 

A  princely  wight  did  raine, 
Who  had  to  name  Cophetua, 

As  poets  they  did  faine. 
From  natures  lawes  he  did  decline, 
For  sure  he  was  not  of  my  minde, 
He  cared  not  for  women-kind. 

But  did  them  all  disdaine. 
But  marke  what  hapned  on  a  day ; 
As  he  out  of  his  window  lay, 
He  saw  a  beggar  all  in  gray, 

The  which  did  cause  his  paine. 


MnQ  Cop^etua  anD 

The  blinded  boy  that  shootes  so  trim 

From  heaven  downe  did  hie. 
He  drew  a  dart  and  shot  at  him, 

In  place  where  he  did  lye : 
Which  soone  did  pierse  him  to  the  quicke, 
And  when  he  felt  the  arrow  pricke. 
Which  in  his  tender  heart  did  sticke. 

He  looketh  as  he  would  dye. 
"  What  sudden  chance  is  this,"  quoth  he, 
"  That  I  to  love  must  subject  be, 
Which  never  thereto  would  agree. 

But  still  did  it  defie  ? " 


Then  from  the  window  he  did  come, 

And  laid  him  on  his  bed ; 
A  thousand  heapes  of  care  did  runne 

Within  his  troubled  head. 
For  now  he  meanes  to  crave  her  love. 
And  now  he  seekes.  which  way  to  proove 
How  he  his  fancie  might  remoove, 

And  not  this  beggar  wed. 
But  Cupid  had  him  so  in  snare. 
That  this  poor  begger  must  prepare 
[44] 


A  salve  to  cure  him  of  his  care. 
Or  els  he  would  be  dead. 


And  as  he  musing  thus  did  lye, 

He  thought  for  to  devise 
How  he  might  have  her  companyc, 

That  so  did  'maze  his  eyes. 
"In  thee,"  quoth  he,  "doth  rest  my  life; 
For  surely  thou  shalt  be  my  wife, 
Or  else  this  hand  with  bloody  knife. 

The  Gods  shall  sure  suffice." 
Then  from  his  bed  he  soon  arose. 
And  to  his  pallace  gate  he  goes ; 
Full  little  then  this  begger  knowes 

When  she  the  king  espies. 


"The  gods  preserve  your  majesty," 

The  beggers  all  gan  cry ; 
"  Vouchsafe  to  give  your  charity. 

Our  childrens  food  to  buy." 
The  king  to  them  his  purse  did  cast, 
And  they  to  part  it  made  great  haste ; 
[45] 


liing  Cortrtua  anD 

This  silly  woman  was  the  last 

That  after  them  did  hye. 
The  king  he  cal*d  her  back  againe, 
And  unto  her  he  gave  his  chaine ; 
And  said,  "  With  us  you  shal  remaine 

Till  such  time  as  we  dye. 

"  For  thou/'  quoth  he,  "  shalt  be  my  wife, 

And  honoured  for  my  queene ; 
With  thee  I  meane  to  lead  my  hfe. 

As  shortly  shall  be  seene : 
Our  wedding  shall  appointed  be. 
And  every  thing  in  its  degree ; 
Come  on,"  quoth  he,  "  and  follow  me, 

Thou  shalt  go  shift  thee  cleane. 
What  is  thy  name,  faire  maid  ?  "   quoth  he. 
"  Penelophon,  O  King,"  quoth  she ; 
With  that  she  made  a  lowe  courtsey ; 

A  trim  one  as  I  weene. 

Thus  hand  in  hand  along  they  walke 

Unto  the  king's  pallace  : 
The  king  with  courteous,  comly  talke 

This  begger  doth  embrace. 

[46] 


The  begger  blusheth  scarlet  red, 
And  straight  againe  as  pale  as  lead, 
But  not  a  word  at  all  she  said, 

She  was  in  such  amaze. 
At  last  she  spake  with  trembling  voycc, 
And  said,  "  O  King,  I  doe  rejoycc 
That  you  wil  take  me  for  your  choyce, 

And  my  degree  so  base." 

And  when  the  wedding  day  was  come, 

The  king  commanded  strait 
The  noblemen,  both  all  and  some, 

Upon  the  queene  to  wait. 
And  she  behaved  herself  that  day 
As  if  she  had  never  walkt  the  way ; 
She  had  forgot  her  gowne  of  gray, 

Which  she  did  weare  of  late. 
The  proverbe  old  is  come  to  passe. 
The  priest,  when  he  begins  his  masse, 
Forgets  that  ever  clerke  he  was ; 

He  knowth  not  his  estate. 

Here  you  may  read  Cop  he  tu  a. 
Through  long  time  fancie-fed, 
[47] 


!img  Cop^etua  nnf>  t^t  )l5rggar::^atD 

Compelled  by  the  blinded  boy 

The  begger  for  to  wed : 
He  that  did  lovers  lookes  disdaine. 
To  do  the  same  was  glad  and  faine, 
Or  else  he  would  himselfe  have  slaine. 

In  storie,  as  we  read. 
Disdaine  no  whit,  O  lady  deere. 
But  pitty  now  thy  servant  heere, 
Least  that  it  hap  to  thee  this  yeare, 

As  to  that  king  it  did. 

And  thus  they  led  a  quiet  life 

During  their  princely  raine. 
And  in  a  tombe  were  buried  both. 

As  writers  sheweth  plaine. 
The  lords  they  tooke  it  grievously. 
The  ladies  tooke  it  heavily. 
The  commons  cryed  pitiously. 

Their  death  to  them  was  paine. 
Their  fame  did  sound  so  passingly. 
That  it  did  pierce  the  starry  sky. 
And  throughout  all  the  world  did  flye 

To  every  princes  realme. 

[48] 


mpjim 


inDi*^; 


\ 

Pv 

1    * 

^^^gea 

\ 

KS«ii,.'ci 

)    > 

'"-'^"S'MS 

»    "f 

'•^;'^i^ 

i 

/ *•■ 

/':{ 

'-wffilviiid^Kl 

/' ' ' 

Ir  \-'^ 

t-'^S^iA 

fcing  ttiv  anfi  l)(j8  Cl^rtc  JDauQl^ttrjai 

King  Leir  once  ruled  in  this  land 

With  princely  power  and  peace, 
And  had  all  things  with  hearts  content. 

That  might  his  joys  increase. 
Amongst  those  things  that  nature  gave, 

Three  daughters  fair  had  he, 
So  princely  seeming  beautiful. 

As  fairer  could  not  be. 


So  on  a  time  it  pleas'd  the  king 
A  question  thus  to  move, 

Which  of  his  daughters  to  his  grace 
Could  shew  the  dearest  love : 
D  [49] 


"  For  to  my  age  you  bring  content," 
Quoth  he,  "  then  let  me  hear. 

Which  of  you  three  in  plighted  troth 
The  kindest  will  appear." 


To  whom  the  eldest  thus  began : 

"  Dear  father,  mind,"  quoth  she, 
*'  Before  your  face,  to  do  you  good. 

My  blood  shall  rendered  be. 
And  for  your  sake  my  bleeding  heart 

Shall  here  be  cut  in  twain. 
Ere  that  I  see  your  reverend  age 

The  smallest  grief  sustain." 


"  And  so  will  I,"  the  second  said ; 

"  Dear  father,  for  your  sake. 
The  worst  of  all  extremities 

ril  gently  undertake : 
And  serve  your  highness  night  and  day 

With  diligence  and  love ; 
That  sweet  content  and  quietness 

Discomforts  may  remove." 
[so] 


"  In  doing  so,  you  glad  my  soul," 

The  aged  king  reply'd ; 
"  But  what  sayst  thou,  my  youngest  girl, 

How  is  thy  love  ally*d  ?  " 
"  My  love  "  (quoth  young  Cordelia  then), 

"  Which  to  your  grace  I  owe, 
Shall  be  the  duty  of  a  child. 

And  that  is  all  Til  show." 


"  And  wilt  thou  shew  no  more,"  quoth  he, 

"  Than  doth  thy  duty  bind  ? 
I  well  perceive  thy  love  is  small. 

When  as  no  more  I  find. 
Henceforth  I  banish  thee  my  court ; 

Thou  art  no  child  of  mine ; 
Nor  any  part  of  this  my  realm 

By  favour  shall  be  thine. 


"  Thy  elder  sisters'  loves  are  more 
Than  well  I  can  demand ; 

To  whom  I  equally  bestow 
My  kingdome  and  my  land, 
[51] 


!&tng  Heir  anU 

My  pompal  state  and  all  my  goods, 

That  lovingly  I  may 
With  those  thy  sisters  be  maintained 

Until  my  dying  day." 


Thus  flattering  speeches  won  renown, 

By  these  two  sisters  here ; 
The  third  had  causeless  banishment. 

Yet  was  her  love  more  dear. 
For  poor  Cordelia  patiently 

Went  wandring  up  and  down, 
Unhelp'd,  unpity'd,  gentle  maid. 

Through  many  an  English  town : 


Untill  at  last  in  famous  France 

She  gentler  fortunes  found ; 
Though  poor  and  bare,  yet  she  was  deem'd 

The  fairest  on  the  ground  : 
Where  when  the  king  her  virtues  heard. 

And  this  fair  lady  seen. 
With  full  consent  of  all  his  court 

He  made  his  wife  and  queen. 

[so 


Her  father,  old  King  Leir,  this  while 

With  his  two  daughters  staid; 
Forgetful  of  their  promis'd  loves, 

Full  soon  the  same  decayed ; 
And  living  in  Queen  Ragan's  court, 

The  eldest  of  the  twain, 
She  took  from  him  his  chiefest  means, 

And  most  of  all  his  train. 


For  whereas  twenty  men  were  wont 

To  wait  with  bended  knee. 
She  gave  allowance  but  to  ten. 

And  after  scarce  to  three. 
Nay,  one  she  thought  too  much  for  him ; 

So  took  she  all  away. 
In  hope  that  in  her  court,  good  king, 

He  would  no  longer  stay. 


"  Am  I  rewarded  thus,"  quoth  he, 

"  In  giving  all  I  have 
Unto  my  children,  and  to  beg 

For  what  I  lately  gave  ? 
[53] 


l&mg  iteir  ann 

ril  go  unto  my  Gonorell : 
My  second  child,  I  know, 

Will  be  more  kind  and  pitiful. 
And  will  relieve  my  woe." 


Full  fast  he  hies  then  to  her  court; 

Where  when  she  heard  his  moan. 
Returned  him  answer,  that  she  grieved 

That  all  his  means  were  gone. 
But  no  way  could  relieve  his  wants ; 

Yet  if  that  he  would  stay 
Within  her  kitchen,  he  should  have 

What  scullions  gave  away. 


When  he  had  heard,  with  bitter  tears. 

He  made  his  answer  then ; 
"  In  what  I  did,  let  me  be  made 

Example  to  all  men. 
I  will  return  again,"  quoth  he, 

"  Unto  my  Ragan*s  court ; 
She  will  not  use  me  thus,  I  hope. 

But  in  a  kinder  sort." 
[54] 


1^10  tBf^ttt  SDaugl)Crr0 

Where  when  he  came,  she  gave  command 

To  drive  him  thence  away : 
When  he  was  well  within  her  court, 

(She  said)  he  would  not  stay. 
Then  back  again  to  Gonorel 

The  woeful  king  did  hie. 
That  in  her  kitchen  he  might  have 

What  scullion  boys  set  by. 


But  there  of  that  he  was  deny'd 

Which  she  had  promis*d  late  : 
For  once  refusing,  he  should  not, 

Come  after  to  her  gate. 
Thus  twixt  his  daughters  for  relief 

He  wandred  up  and  down. 
Being  glad  to  feed  on  beggars'  food 

That  lately  wore  a  crown. 


And  calling  to  remembrance  then 
His  youngest  daughters  words. 

That  said,  the  duty  of  a  child 
Was  all  that  love  affords  — 
[55] 


Mn%  Heir  anD 

But  doubting  to  repair  to  her. 
Whom  he  had  banished  so, 

Grew  frantic  mad ;  for  in  his  mind 
He  bore  the  wounds  of  woe. 


Which  made  him  rend  his  milk-white  locks 

And  tresses  from  his  head. 
And  all  with  blood  bestain  his  cheeks. 

With  age  and  honour  spread. 
To  hills  and  woods  and  watry  founts. 

He  made  his  hourly  moan. 
Till  hills  and  woods  and  senseless  things 

Did  seem  to  sigh  and  groan. 


Even  thus  possest  with  discontents, 

He  passed  o'er  to  France, 
In  hopes  from  fair  Cordelia  there 

To  find  some  gentler  chance. 
Most  virtuous  dame !  which,  when  she  heard 

Of  this  her  father's  grief, 
As  duty  bound,  she  quickly  sent 

Him  comfort  and  relief. 

[56] 


'•^'^.'^    ^  T 


i 


And  by  a  train  of  noble  peers, 

In  brave  and  gallant  sort, 
She  gave  in  charge  he  should  be  brought 

To  Aganippus*  court ; 
Whose  royal  king,  with  noble  mind. 

So  freely  gave  consent 
To  muster  up  his  knights  at  arms. 

To  fame  and  courage  bent. 


And  so  to  England  came  with  speed, 

To  repossesse  King  Lcir, 
And  drive  his  daughters  from  their  thrones 

By  his  Cordelia  dear. 
Where  she,  true-hearted,  noble  queen. 

Was  in  the  battel  slain ; 
Yet  he,  good  king,  in  his  old  days, 

Possest  his  crown  again. 


But  when  he  heard  Cordelia's  death. 
Who  died  indeed  for  love 

Of  her  dear  father,  in  whose  cause 
She  did  this  battle  move, 
[57] 


i^ing  Heir  anD  ^ia  tE^vtt  SDaug^tertf 

He  swooning  fell  upon  her  breast, 
From  whence  he  never  parted ; 

But  on  her  bosom  left  his  life 
That  was  so  truly  hearted. 

The  lords  and  nobles,  when  they  saw 

The  end  of  these  events. 
The  other  sisters  unto  death 

They  doomed  by  consents ; 
And  being  dead,  their  crowns  they  left 

Unto  the  next  of  kin  ; 
Thus  have  you  seen  the  fall  of  pride. 

And  disobedient  sin. 


[58] 


I 


if  air  Bojsamona 

When  as  King  Henry  rulde  this  land, 

The  second  of  that  name, 
Besides  the  queene,  he  dearly  lovde 

A  faire  and  comely  dame. 

Most  peerlesse  was  her  beautye  founde, 

Her  favour,  and  her  face ; 
A  sweeter  creature  in  this  worlde 

Could  never  prince  embrace. 

Her  crisped  lockes  like  threads  of  golde, 
Appeard  to  each  man's  sight ; 

Her  sparkling  eyes,  like  Orient  pearles. 
Did  cast  a  heavenlye  light. 
[59] 


iFair  HosfamonD 

The  blood  within  her  crystal  cheekes 

Did  such  a  colour  drive, 
As  though  the  lillye  and  the  rose 

For  mastership  did  strive. 

Yea  Rosamonde,  fair  Rosamonde, 

Her  name  was  called  so. 
To  whom  our  queene,  Dame  Ellinor, 

Was  known  a  deadlye  foe. 

The  king  therefore,  for  her  defence 
Against  the  furious  queene. 

At  Woodstocke  builded  such  a  bower. 
The  like  was  never  scene. 

Most  curiously  that  bower  was  built. 
Of  stone  and  timber  strong ; 

An  hundered  and  fifty  doors 
Did  to  this  bower  belong : 

And  they  so  cunninglye  contriv'd, 
With  turnings  round  about, 

That  none  but  with  a  clue  of  thread 
Could  enter  in  or  out. 

[60] 


iFair  Uo^^monH 

And  for  his  love  and  ladyes  sake. 
That  was  so  faire  and  brighte, 

The  keeping  of  this  bower  he  gave 
Unto  a  valiant  knighte. 

But  fortune,  that  doth  often  frowne 
Where  she  before  did  smile, 

The  kinges  delighte  and  ladyes  joy 
Full  soon  shee  did  beguile: 

For  why,  the  kinges  ungracious  sonnc. 
Whom  he  did  high  advance. 

Against  his  father  raised  warres 
Within  the  realme  of  France. 

But  yet  before  our  comelye  king 
The  English  land  forsooke. 

Of  Rosamond,  his  lady  faire. 
His  farewelle  thus  he  tookc : 

"  My  Rosamonde,  my  only  Rose, 
That  pleasest  best  mine  eye. 

The  fairest  flower  in  all  the  worlde 
To  feed  my  fantasye, — 
[61] 


iFair  HiM?amonD 

**  The  flower  of  mine  affected  heart. 
Whose  sweetness  doth  excelle. 

My  royal  Rose,  a  thousand  times 
I  bid  thee  nowe  farwelle ! 

"  For  I  must  leave  my  fairest  flower. 
My  sweetest  Rose,  a  space, 

And  cross  the  seas  to  famous  France, 
Proud  rebelles  to  abase. 

"  But  yet,  my  Rose,  be  sure  thou  shalt 

My  coming  shortlye  see. 
And  in  my  heart,  when  hence  I  am. 

He  beare  my  Rose  with  mee." 

When  Rosamond,  that  ladye  brighte. 
Did  heare  the  king  saye  soe. 

The  sorrowe  of  her  grieved  heart 
Her  outward  lookes  did  showe. 

And  from  her  cleare  and  crystal!  eyes 
The  teares  gusht  out  apace, 

Which,  like  the  silver-pearled  dewe, 
Ranne  downe  her  comely  face. 
[6^]       - 


ifatr  Ho0amonD 

Her  lippes,  erst  like  the  corall  redde, 

Did  waxe  both  wan  and  pale, 
And  for  the  sorrow  she  conceivde 

Her  vitall  spirits  faile. 

And  falling  downe  all  in  a  swoone 

Before  King  Henryes  face, 
Full  oft  he  in  his  princelye  armes 

Her  bodye  did  embrace. 

And  twentyc  times,  with  watery  eyes, 

He  kist  her  tender  cheeke, 
Untill  he  had  revivde  againe 

Her  senses  milde  and  meeke. 

"  Why  grieves  my  Rose,  my  sweetest  Rose  ? 

The  king  did  often  say : 
"  Because,**  quoth  shee,  "  to  bloodye  warres 

My  lord  must  part  awaye. 

"  But  since  your  Grace  on  forrayne  coastes, 

Amonge  your  foes  unkinde, 
Must  goe  to  hazard  life  and  limbe. 

Why  should  I  staye  behinde  ? 

[63] 


iFair  J^oflfamonD 

"  Nay,  rather  let  me,  like  a  page. 
Your  sworde  and  target  beare ; 

That  on  my  breast  the  blowes  may  lighte, 
Which  would  offend  you  there. 

"  Or  lett  mee,  in  your  royal  tent. 

Prepare  your  bed  at  nighte. 
And  with  sweete  baths  refresh  your  grace, 

At  your  returne  from  fighte. 

"  So  I  your  presence  may  enjoy e 

No  toil  I  will  refuse ; 
But  wanting  you,  my  life  is  death : 

Nay,  death  lid  rather  chuse." 

"  Content  thy  self,  my  dearest  love. 

Thy  rest  at  home  shall  bee. 
In  Englandes  sweet  and  pleasant  isle ; 

For  travell  fits  not  thee. 

"  Faire  ladies  brooke  not  bloodye  warres ; 

Soft  peace  their  sexe  delightes ; 
Not  rugged  campes,  but  courtlye  bowers ; 

Gay  feastes,  not  cruell  fightes. 

[64] 


iFatr  Hos^amonD 

"  My  Rose  shall  safely  here  abide. 
With  musicke  passe  the  daye, 

Whilst  I  amonge  the  piercing  pikes 
My  foes  seeke  far  awaye. 

"  My  Rose  shall  shine  in  pearle  and  golde, 
Whilst  I  me  in  armour  dighte  ; 

Gay  galliards  here  my  love  shall  dance. 
Whilst  I  my  foes  goe  fighte. 

"  And  you,  Sir  Thomas,  whom  I  truste 

To  bee  my  loves  defence. 
Be  carefull  of  my  gallant  Rose 

When  I  am  parted  hence." 

And  therewithall  he  fetcht  a  sigh. 
As  though  his  heart  would  breakc ; 

And  Rosamonde,  for  very  griefe. 
Not  one  plaine  word  could  speake. 

And  at  their  parting  well  they  mighte 

In  heart  be  grieved  sore : 
After  that  daye,  faire  Rosamonde 

The  king  did  see  no  more. 
[65] 


ifair  l&flfamonD 

For  when  his  Grace  had  past  the  seas. 

And  into  France  was  gone. 
With  envious  heart,  Queene  Ellinor 

To  Woodstocke  came  anone. 

And  forth  she  calls  this  trustye  knighte 

In  an  unhappy  houre, 
Who,  with  his  clue  of  twined-thread. 

Came  from  this  famous  bower. 

And  when  that  they  had  wounded  him. 
The  queene  this  thread  did  gette. 

And  wente  where  Ladye  Rosamonde 
Was  like  an  angell  sette. 

But  when  the  queene  with  stedfast  eye 

Beheld  her  beauteous  face, 
She  was  amazed  in  her  minde 

At  her  exceeding  grace. 

"  Cast  off  from  thee  those  robes,"  she  said, 

"  That  riche  and  costlye  bee  ; 
And  drinke  thou  up  this  deadlye  draught 

Which  I  have  brought  to  thee." 
[66] 


iFair  Uo0amonO 

Then  presentlye  upon  her  knees 
Sweet  Rosamonde  did  falle ; 

And  pardon  of  the  queene  she  crav'd 
For  her  offences  all. 

"  Take  pitty  on  my  youthfull  yeares," 
Faire  Rosamonde  did  crye ; 

"  And  lett  mee  not  with  poison  stronge 
Enforced  bee  to  dye. 

"  I  will  renounce  my  sinfiill  life. 
And  in  some  cloyster  bide ; 

Or  else  be  banisht,  if  you  please, 
To  range  the  world  soe  wide. 

"  And  for  the  fault  which  I  have  done, 
Though  I  was  forc*d  theretoe. 

Preserve  my  life,  and  punish  mee 
As  you  thinke  meet  to  doe." 

And  with  these  words,  her  lillie  handes 
She  wrunge  full  often  there ; 

And  downe  along  her  lovely  face 
Did  trickle  many  a  teare. 
[67] 


iFair  Ho^amonu 

But  nothing  could  this  furious  queene 

Therewith  appeased  bee ; 
The  cup  of  deadlye  poyson  stronge. 

As  she  knelt  on  her  knee. 

She  gave  this  comelye  dame  to  drinke ; 

Who  tooke  it  in  her  hand. 
And  from  her  bended  knee  arose, 

And  on  her  feet  did  stand. 

And  casting  up  her  eyes  to  heaven, 

Shee  did  for  mercye  calle ; 
And  drinking  up  the  poison  stronge. 

Her  life  she  lost  withalle. 

And  when  that  death  through  everye  limbe 
Had  showde  its  greatest  spite. 

Her  chiefest  foes  did  plain  confesse 
Shee  was  a  glorious  wight. 

Her  body  then  they  did  entomb, 

When  life  was  fled  away. 
At  Godstowe,  neare  to  Oxford  towne, 

As  may  be  seene  this  day. 
[68] 


|&]^(lliDa  anD  ©ortDtm 

In  the  merrie  monctl.  of  Mayc, 
In  a  mornc  by  break  of  dayc. 
With  a  troope  of  damselles  playing 
Forthe  *  I  yode  *  forsooth  a  maying ; 

When  anon  by  a  wood  side, 
Where  that  Maye  was  in  his  pride, 
I  espied  all  alone 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  adoe  there  was,  God  wot : 
He  wold  love,  and  she  wold  not. 
She  sayde,  "  Never  man  was  trewe ; ' 
He  sayes,  "  None  was  false  to  you.** 

[69] 


He  sayde,  hee  had  lovde  her  longe ; 
She  sayes,  love  should  have  no  wronge. 
Corydon  wold  kisse  her  then ; 
She  sayes,  "  Maydes  must  kisse  no  men, 

"  Tyll  they  doe  for  good  and  all." 
When  she  made  the  shepperde  call 
All  the  heavens  to  wytnes  truthe. 
Never  loved  a  truer  youthe. 

Then  with  manie  a  prettie  othe. 
Yea  and  nay,  and  faithe  and  trothe, 
Suche  as  seelie  "hepperdes  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse. 

Love,  that  had  bene  long  deluded. 
Was  with  kisses  sweete  concluded ; 
And  Phillida  with  garlands  gaye 
Was  made  the  lady  of  the  Maye. 


[70] 


fair  a^argartt  auD  ^totct  milUam 

As  it  fell  out  on  a  long  summer's  day, 

Two  lovers  they  sat  on  a  hill ; 
They  sat  together  that  long  summer's  day, 

And  could  not  talk  their  fill. 

"  I  see  no  harm  by  you,  Margaret, 

And  you  see  none  by  mee ; 
Before  to-morrow  at  eight  o'  the  clock 

A  rich  wedding  you  shall  see." 

Fair  Margaret  sat  in  her  bower-window. 

Combing  her  yellow  hair ; 
There  she  spyed  sweet  William  and  his  bride, 

As  they  were  a  riding  near. 
[7-] 


ifair  ^pargam  and 

Then  down  she  layd  her  ivory  combe. 

And  braided  her  hair  in  twain : 
She  went  alive  out  of  her  bower. 

But  ne*er  came  alive  in't  again. 

When  day  was  gone,  and  night  was  come. 

And  all  men  fast  asleep. 
Then  came  the  spirit  of  Fair  Marg'ret, 

And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

"  Are  you  awake,  sweet  William  ?  "  shee  said, 
"  Or,  sweet  William,  are  you  asleep  ? 

God  give  you  joy  of  your  gay  bride-bed. 
And  me  of  my  winding  sheet." 

When  day  was  come,  and  night  was  gone. 

And  all  men  wak*d  from  sleep. 
Sweet  William  to  his  lady  sayd, 

"  My  dear,  I  have  cause  to  weep. 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream,  my  dear  ladye. 

Such  dreames  are  never  good : 
I  dream.t  my  bower  was  full  of  red  '  wine,* 

And  my  bride-bed  full  of  blood." 

[72] 


g^toeet  Mtlltam 

"  Such  dreams,  such  dreams,  my  honoured  sir. 

They  never  do  prove  good ; 
To  dream  thy  bower  was  full  of  red  *  wine,* 

And  thy  bride-bed  full  of  blood." 

He  called  up  his  merry  men  all, 

By  one,  by  two,  and  by  three ; 
Saying,  "  1*11  away  to  fair  Marg'ret's  bower, 

By  the  leave  of  my  ladie." 

And  when  he  came  to  fair  Marg'ret's  bower, 

He  knocked  at  the  ring ; 
And  who  so  ready  as  her  seven  brethren 

To  let  sweet  William  in. 

Then  he  turned  up  the  covering-sheet ; 

"  Pray  let  me  see  the  dead ; 
Methinks  she  looks  all  pale  and  wan. 

She  hath  lost  her  cherry  red. 

"  ril  do  more  for  thee,  Margaret, 

Than  any  of  thy  kin  : 
For  I  will  kiss  thy  pale  wan  lips, 

Though  a  smile  I  cannot  win." 
[73] 


iFair  ^pargaret  and 

With  that  bespake  the  seven  brethren. 

Making  most  piteous  mone, 
"  You  may  go  kiss  your  jolly  brown  bride. 

And  let  our  sister  alone." 

**  If  I  do  kiss  my  jolly  brown  bride, 

I  do  but  what  is  right ; 
I  ne'er  made  a  vow  to  yonder  poor  corpse. 

By  day,  nor  yet  by  night. 

"  Deal  on,  deal  on,  my  merry  men  all. 
Deal  on  your  cake  and  your  wine : 

For  whatever  is  dealt  at  her  funeral  to-day. 
Shall  be  dealt  to-morrow  at  mine." 

Fair  Margaret  dyed  to-day,  to-day. 
Sweet  William  dyed  the  morrow : 

Fair  Margaret  dyed  for  pure  true  love. 
Sweet  William  dyed  for  sorrow. 

Margaret  was  buryed  in  the  lower  chancel. 

And  William  in  the  higher : 
Out  of  her  brest  there  sprang  a  rose, 

And  out  of  his  a  briar. 
[74] 


fytDttt  Mtlliam 

They  grew  till  they  grew  unto  the  church  top. 
And  then  they  could  grow  no  higher ; 

And  there  they  tyed  in  a  true  lover's  knot, 
Which  made  all  the  people  admire. 

Then  came  the  clerk  of  the  parish, 

As  you  the  truth  shall  hear, 
And  by  misfortune  cut  them  down. 

Or  they  had  now  been  there. 


[75] 


annan  mater 

"  Annan  Water's  wading  deep. 

And  my  love  Annie's  wondrous  bonny ; 
I  will  keep  my  tryst  to-night. 

And  win  the  heart  o'  lovely  Annie." 

He's  loupen  on  his  bonny  grey. 

He  rade  the  right  gate  and  the  ready ; 

For  a'  the  storm  he  wadna  stay. 
For  seeking  o'  his  bonny  lady. 


And  he  has  ridden  o'er  field  and  fell. 

Through  muir  and  moss,  and  stones  and  mire ; 
His  spurs  o'  steel  were  sair  to  bide. 

And  frae  her  four  feet  flew  the  fire. 
l76^ 


0nnan  Mater 

"  My  bonny  grey,  noo  play  your  part ! 

Gin  ye  be  the  steed  that  wins  my  dearie, 
Wi*  corn  and  hay  ye'se  be  fed  for  aye, 

And  never  spur  sail  mak*  you  wearie." 

The  grey  was  a  mare,  and  a  right  gude  mare ; 

But  when  she  wan  the  Annan  Water, 
She  couldna  hae  found  the  ford  that  night 

Had  a  thousand  merks  been  wadded  at  her. 

"  O  boatman,  boatman,  put  off  your  boat, 
Put  off  your  boat  for  gouden  money  ! " 

But  for  a*  the  goud  in  fair  Scotland, 

He  dared  na  tak*  him  through  to  Annie. 

"  O  I  was  sworn  sae  late  yestreen. 

Not  by  a  single  aith,  but  mony. 
rU  cross  the  drumly  stream  to-night, 

Or  never  could  I  face  my  honey." 

The  side  was  stey,  and  the  bottom  deep, 
Frae  bank  to  brae  the  water  pouring ; 

The  bonny  grey  mare  she  swat  for  fear. 
For  she  heard  the  water-kelpy  roaring. 
[77] 


annan  «ater 

He  spurred  her  forth  into  the  flood, 

I  wot  she  swam  both  strong  and  steady ; 

But  the  stream  was  broad,  her  strength  did  fail, 
And  he  never  saw  his  bonny  lady. 

O  wae  betide  the  frush  saugh  wand ! 

And  wae  betide  the  bush  of  brier ! 
That  bent  and  brake  into  his  hand, 

When  strength  of  man  and  horse  did  tire. 

And  wae  betide  ye,  Annan  Water ! 

This  night  ye  are  a  drumly  river ; 
But  over  thee  we'll  build  a  brig, 

That  ye  nae  mair  true  love  may  sever. 


[78] 


Cl^e  TBaiuriS  JDaugl^tet  of  SsfUngton 

There  was  a  youthe,  and  a  well-beloved  youthe. 

And  he  was  a  squire's  son ; 
He  loved  the  baylifFe*s  daughter  dearc, 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coye,  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  soe, 
Noe  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  showe. 

But  when  his  friendes  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  minde, 
They  sent  him  up  to  faire  London, 

An  apprentice  for  to  binde. 
[79] 


©lie  llBailiff'flf  ^aug^iter 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  yeares, 
And  never  his  love  Ctould  see,  — 

"  Many  a  teare  have  I  shed  for  her  sake. 
When  she  little  thought  of  mee." 

Then  all  the  maids  of  Islington 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  playe. 
All  but  the  baylifFe's  daughter  deare ; 

She  secretly  stole  awaye. 

She  pulled  off  her  gowne  of  greene, 

And  put  on  ragged  attire. 
And  to  faire  London  she  would  go 

Her  true  love  to  enquire. 

And  as  she  went  along  the  high  road. 
The  weather  being  hot  and  drye. 

She  sat  her  downe  upon  a  green  bank. 
And  her  true  love  came  riding  bye. 

She  started  up,  with  a  colour  soe  redd. 
Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-reine  ; 

"  One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,"  she  sayd, 
"  Will  ease  me  of  much  paine." 
[80] 


(Of  3l0lm8ton 

"  Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweet-heart, 
Praye  tell  me  where  you  were  borne." 

"  At  Islington,  kind  sir,"  sayd  shee, 
"  Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorne.** 

"  I  pry  thee,  sweet-heart,  then  tell  to  mee, 

O  tell  me,  whether  you  knowe 
The  bayliffes  daughter  of  Islington." 

"  She  is  dead,  sir,  long  agoe." 

"  If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse, 

My  saddle  and  bridle  also ; 
For  I  will  into  some  farr  countryc, 

Where  noe  man  shall  mc  knowe." 

"  O  staye,  O  staye,  thou  goodlye  youthc. 

She  standeth  by  thy  side ; 
She  is  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead. 

And  readye  to  be  thy  bride." 

"  O  farewell  griefe,  and  welcome  joye. 

Ten  thousand  times  therefore ; 
For  nowe  I  have  founde  mine  owne  true  love. 

Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more." 
[8.] 


TSatbata  auen'is  €mtltv 

All  in  the  merry  month  of  May, 

When  green  buds  they  were  swelling, 

Young  Jemmy  Grove  on  his  death-bed  lay 
For  love  o'  Barbara  Allen. 

He  sent  his  man  unto  her  then. 

To  the  town  where  she  was  dwelling : 

"  O  haste  and  come  to  my  master  dear, 
If  your  name  be  Barbara  Allen." 

Slowly,  slowly  rase  she  up. 

And  she  cam'  where  he  was  lying ; 

And  when  she  drew  the  curtain  by, 

Says,  "  Young  man,  I  think  youVe  dying. 
[82] 


Il5arbara  aiUn'tf  Cruelty 

"  O  it's  I  am  sick,  and  very,  very  sick, 

And  it's  a'  for  Barbara  Allen." 
"  O  the  better  for  me  ye'se  never  be, 

Tho'  your  heart's  blude  were  a-spilling ! 

"  O  dinna  ye  min',  young  man,"  she  says, 
"  When  the  red  wine  ye  were  filling, 

That  ye  made  the  healths  gae  round  and  round 
And  ye  slighted  Barbara  Allen  ? " 

He  turn'd  his  face  unto  the  wa*, 

And  death  was  wi*  him  dealing: 
"  Adieu,  adieu,  my  dear  friends  a' ; 

Be  kind  to  Barbara  Allen." 

As  she  was  walking  o'er  the  fields. 
She  heard  the  dead-bell  knelling; 

And  every  jow  the  dead-bell  gave. 
It  cried,  "  Woe  to  Barbara  Allen  !  " 

"  O  mother,  mother,  mak*  my  bed, 

To  lay  me  down  in  sorrow. 
My  love  has  died  for  me  to-day, 

I'll  die  for  him  to-morrow." 

[83] 


"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  now,  Lord  Douglas,"  she  says, 
"  And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright ; 

Sweet  William  will  hae  Lady  Margaret  awa' 
Before  that  it  be  light. 

"  Rise  up,  rise  up,  my  seven  bold  sons. 
And  put  on  your  armour  so  bright. 

And  take  better  care  of  your  youngest  sister. 
For  your  eldest's  awa*  the  last  night." 

He's  mounted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey. 
With  a  buglet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side. 

And  lightly  they  rode  away. 
[84] 


W^t  Douglasf  GTragrD^ 

Lord  William  lookit  o'er  his  left  shoulder, 

To  see  what  he  could  see, 
And  there  he  spied  her  seven  brethren  bold 

Come  riding  o'er  the  lea. 

"  Light  down,  light  down,  Lady  Margaret,"  he  said, 
"  And  hold  my  steed  in  your  hand. 

Until  that  against  your  seven  brethren  bold. 
And  your  father  I  make  a  stand." 

She  held  his  steed  in  her  milk-white  hand, 

And  never  shed  one  tear. 
Until  that  she  saw  her  seven  brethren  fa* 

And  her  father  hard  fighting,  who  loved  her  so 
dear. 

"  O  hold  your  hand.  Lord  William  ! "  she  said, 
"  For  your  strokes  they  are  wondrous  sair ; 

True  lovers  I  can  get  many  a  ane. 
But  a  father  I  can  never  get  main" 

O,  she's  ta'en  out  her  handkerchief, 

It  was  o*  the  holland  sae  fine. 
And  aye  she  dighted  her  father's  bloody  wounds. 

That  were  redder  than  the  wine. 
[85] 


"  O  chuse,  O  chuse.  Lady  Margaret,"  he  said, 
"  O  whether  will  ye  gang  or  bide  ?  " 

"  ril  gang,  ril  gang.  Lord  William,"  she  said, 
"  For  you  have  left  me  nae  other  guide." 

He's  lifted  her  on  a  milk-white  steed. 

And  himself  on  a  dapple  grey. 
With  a  buglet  horn  hung  down  by  his  side. 

And  slowly  they  baith  rade  away. 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 

And  a'  by  the  light  of  the  moon. 
Until  they  came  to  yon  wan  water, 

And  there  they  lighted  down. 

They  lighted  down  to  tak  a  drink 

Of  the  spring  that  ran  sae  clear ; 
And  down  the  stream  ran  his  gude  heart's  blood. 

And  sair  she  'gan  to  fear. 

"  Hold  up,  hold  up,  Lord  William,"  she  says, 

"  For  I  fear  that  you  are  slain  ! " 
"'Tis  naething  but  the  shadow  of  my  scarlet  cloak. 

That  shines  in  the  water  sae  plain." 
[86] 


®|ie  SDougla^  tTrageO^ 

O  they  rade  on,  and  on  they  rade, 
And  a*  by  the  '.^ht  of  the  moon. 

Until  they  came  to  his  mother's  ha'  door. 
And  there  they  lighted  down. 

"  Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,'*  he  says, 

"  Get  up,  and  let  me  in  ! 
Get  up,  get  up,  lady  mother,"  he  says, 

"For  this  night  my  feir  lady  I've  win. 

"  O  male  my  bed,  lady  mother,"  he  says, 

"  O  mak  it  braid  and  deep  ! 
And  lay  Lady  Margaret  close  at  my  back, 

And  the  sounder  I  will  sleep." 

Lx>rd  William  was  dead  lang  ere  midnight, 

Lady  Margaret  lang  ere  day : 
And  all  true  lovers  that  go  thegither. 

May  they  have  mair  luck  than  they ! 

Lord  William  was  buried  in  St.  Marie's  kirk, 
Lady  Margaret  in  Marie's  quire ; 

Out  o'  the  lady's  grave  grew  a  bonny  red  rose, 
And  out  o*  the  knight's  a  brier. 
[87] 


®l^e  2E>ougla0  (H^rageu^ 


And  they  twa  met,  and  they  twa  plat, 
And  fain  they  wad  j:  near ; 

And  a'  the  world  might  ken  right  weel. 
They  were  twa  lovers  dear. 

But  bye  and  rade  the  black  Douglas, 
And  wow  but  he  was  rough ! 

For  he  pulled  up  the  bonny  brier. 
And  flanged  in  St.  Marie's  Loch. 


[88] 


goung  Mattva 

About  Yule,  when  the  wind  blew  cool ; 

And  the  round  tables  began, 
A*  there  is  come  to  our  king's  court 

Mony  a  well-favoured  man. 

The  queen  looked  o*er  the  castle  wa*, 
Beheld  baith  dale  and  down, 

And  then  she  saw  young  Waters 
Come  riding  to  the  town. 

His  footmen  they  did  rin  before, 
His  horsemen  rade  behind ; 

Ane  mantle  of  the  burning  gowd 
Did  keep  him  frae  the  wind. 

[89] 


Gowden  graith'd  ^  his  horse  before. 

And  siller  shod  behind ; 
The  horse  young  Waters  rade  upon 

Was  fleeter  than  the  wind. 

Out  then  spake  a  wily  lord, 

Unto  the  queen  said  he : 
"  O  tell  me  wha*s  the  fairest  face 

Rides  in  the  company  ?  " 

**  IVe  seen  lord,  and  IVe  seen  laird. 

And  knights  of  high  degree. 
But  a  fairer  face  than  young  Waters 

Mine  eyen  did  never  see." 

Out  then  spake  the  jealous  king 

And  an  angry  man  was  he : 
"  O  if  he  had  been  twice  as  fair. 

You  might  have  excepted  me." 

"  You*re  neither  laird  nor  lord,"  she  says, 
"  But  the  king  that  wears  the  crown  ; 

There  is  not  a  knight  in  fair  Scotland, 
But  to  thee  maun  bow  down." 

1  Grattb^d,  girthed. 

[9°]    . 


goung  OTatertf 

For  a*  that  she  could  do  or  say, 

Appeased  he  wad  nae  be ; 
But  for  the  words  which  she  had  said. 

Young  Waters  he  maun  dee. 

They  hae  ta*en  young  Waters, 
And  put  fetters  to  his  feet ; 

They  hae  ta*en  young  Waters, 

And  thrown  him  in  dungeon  deep. 

"  Aft  I  have  ridden  thro'  Stirling  town. 
In  the  wind  but  and  the  wect; 

But  I  ne'er  rade  thro'  Stirling  town 
Wi'  fetters  at  my  feet. 

"  Aft  have  I  ridden  thro'  Stirling  town, 
In  the  wind  but  and  the  rain ; 

But  I  ne'er  rade  thro'  Stirling  town 
Ne'er  to  return  again." 

They  hae  ta'en  to  the  heading-hill 
His  young  son  in  his  cradle ; 

And  they  hae  ta'en  to  the  heading-hill 
His  horse  but  and  his  saddle. 
[91] 


They  hae  ta'en  to  the  heading-hill 

His  lady  fair  to  see ; 
And  for  the  words  the  queen  had  spoke 

Young  Waters  he  did  dee. 


[90 


floDDen  IfteU) 

King  Jamie  hath  made  a  vow, 

Keepe  it  well  if  he  may  : 
That  he  will  be  at  lovely  London 

Upon  Saint  James  his  day. 

"  Upon  Saint  James  his  day  at  noonc, 

At  faire  London  will  I  be, 
And  all  the  lords  in  merrie  Scotland, 

They  shall  dine  there  with  me. 

"  March  out,  march  out,  my  merry  men, 

Of  hie  or  low  degree ; 
rie  weare  the  crowne  in  London  townc. 

And  that  you  soon  shall  be." 
[93] 


Then  bespake  good  Queene  Margaret, 

The  teares  fell  from  her  eye : 
"  Leave  off  these  warres,  most  noble  King, 

Keepe  your  fidelitie. 

"  The  water  runnes  swift,  and  wondrous  deepe, 
From  bottome  unto  the  brimme ; 

My  brother  Henry  hath  men  good  enough ; 
England  is  hard  to  winne." 

"  Away  "  quoth  he  "  with  this  silly  foole  ! 

In  prison  fast  let  her  lie : 
For  she  is  come  of  the  English  bloud. 

And  for  these  words  she  shall  dye." 

With  that  bespake  Lord  Thomas  Howard, 
The  Queenes  chamberlaine  that  day : 

"  If  that  you  put  Queene  Margaret  to  death, 
Scotland  shall  rue  it  alway." 

Then  in  a  rage  King  Jamie  did  say, 

"  Away  with  this  foolish  mome  ; 
He  shall  be  hanged,  and  the  other  be  burned. 

So  soone  as  I  come  home." 
[94] 


At  Flodden  Field  the  Scots  came  in, 
Which  made  our  English  men  faine ; 

At  Bramstone  Greene  this  battaile  was  scene, 
There  was  King  Jamie  slaine. 

His  bodie  never  could  be  found, 

When  he  was  over  throwne, 
And  he  that  wore  faire  Scotland's  crowne 

That  day  could  not  be  knowne. 

Then  presently  the  Scot  did  flie, 

Their  cannons  they  left  behind ; 
Their  ensignes  gay  were  won  all  away, 

Our  souldiers  did  beate  them  blinde. 

To  tell  you  plaine,  twelve  thousand  were  slaine, 

That  to  the  fight  did  stand, 
And  many  prisoners  tooke  that  day. 

The  best  in  all  Scotland. 

That  day  made  many  [a]  fatherlesse  child; 

And  many  a  widow  poore, 
And  many  a  Scottish  gay  lady 

Sate  weeping  in  her  bower. 
[95] 


Jack  with  a  feather  was  lapt  all  in  leather, 

His  boastings  were  all  in  vaine ; 
He  had  such  a  chance,  with  a  new  morrice-dance 

He  never  went  home  againe. 


This  was  written  to  adapt  the  ballad  to  the  seven- 
teenth century. 

Now  heaven  we  laude  that  never  more 
Such  biding  shall  come  to  hand ; 

Our  King,  by  othe,  is  King  of  both 
England  and  faire  Scotland. 


[96] 


I^elen  of  fiirficottncU 

I  WAD  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me ! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  Love  dropt  and  spak  nae  mair ! 

1  laid  her  down  wi*  meikle  care, 

On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 
°  [97] 


f^rlen  of  iaiitoinneU 

As  I  went  down  the  water  side, 
Nane  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
Nane  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma*, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma*, 
For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare ! 
ril  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair. 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair. 
Until  the  day  I  dee ! 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise. 
Says,  "  Haste,  and  come  to  me  !  " 

O  Helen  fair  !     O  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest. 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest. 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 
[98] 


^tlm  of  liirfeconnell 

I  wad  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 
On  fair  Kirkconnell  lea. 

I  wad  I  were  where  Helen  lies ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries. 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies. 
Since  my  Love  died  for  mc. 


[99] 


Kobin  i^oon  ana  alien  a  l^ale 

Come  listen  to  me,  you  gallants  so  free, 
All  you  that  love  mirth  for  to  hear. 

And  I  will  tell  you  of  a  bold  outlaw. 
That  lived  in  Nottinghamshire. 

As  Robin  Hood  in  the  forest  stood. 

All  under  the  greenwood  tree. 
There  he  was  aware  of  a  brave  young  man. 

As  fine  as  fine  might  be. 

The  youngster  was  clad  in  scarlet  red. 

In  scarlet  fine  and  gay  ; 
And  he  did  frisk  it  over  the  plain. 

And  chaunted  a  roundelay. 

[lOO] 


Uobin  l^ooD  auD  ^Ufn^a^SDale 

As  Robin  Hood  next  morning  stood 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  gay, 
There  did  he  espy  the  same  young  man 

Come  drooping  along  the  way. 

The  scarlet  he  wore  the  day  before 

It  was  clean  cast  away ; 
And  at  every  step  he  fetched  a  sigh, 

"  Alas  !  and  a  well-a-day  !  ** 

Then  stepped  forth  brave  Little  John, 

And  Midge,  the  miller's  son; 
Which  made  the  young  man  bend  his  bow, 

When  as  he  see  them  come. 

"  Stand  off!  stand  off !  **  the  young  man  said, 

"  What  is  your  will  with  me  ?  " 
"  You  must  come  before  our  master  straight, 

Under  yon  greenwood  tree." 

And  when  he  came  bold  Robin  before, 

Robin  asked  him  courteously, 
"  O,  hast  thou  any  money  to  spare. 

For  my  merry  men  and  me  ?  " 
[.o.] 


"  I  have  no  money,"  the  young  man  said, 

"  But  five  shillings  and  a  ring ; 
And  that  I  have  kept  this  seven  long  years, 

To  have  at  my  wedding. 

"  Yesterday  I  should  have  married  a  maid, 

But  she  was  from  me  ta'en. 
And  chosen  to  be  an  old  knight's  delight, 

Whereby  my  poor  heart  is  slain." 

"  What  is  thy  name  ?  "  then  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  Come  tell  me,  without  any  fail." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  My  name  it  is  Allen-a-Dale." 

"  What  wilt  thou  give  me,"  said  Robin  Hood, 

"  In  ready  gold  or  fee. 
To  help  thee  to  thy  true  love  again. 

And  deliver  her  unto  thee  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  money,"  then  quoth  the  young  man, 

"  No  ready  gold  nor  fee. 
But  I  will  swear  upon  a  book 

Thy  true  servant  for  to  be." 


0llnt;a=2DaU 

"  How  many  miles  is  it  to  thy  true  love  ? 

Come  tell  me  without  guile." 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,"  then  said  the  young 
man, 

"  It  is  but  five  little  mile." 

Then  Robin  he  hasted  over  the  plain, 

He  did  neither  stint  nor  lin, 
Until  he  came  unto  the  church 

Where  Allen  should  keep  his  weddin*. 

"  What  hast  thou  here  ? "  the  bishop  then  said, 

"  I  prithee  now  tell  unto  mc." 
"  I  am  a  bold  harper,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  And  the  best  in  the  north  country." 

^*  O  welcome,  O  welcome,"  the  bishop  he  said, 

"  That  music  best  pleaseth  me." 
"  You  shall  have  no  music,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Till  the  bride  and  bridegroom  I  see." 

With  that  came  in  a  wealthy  knight, 

Which  was  both  grave  and  old ; 
And  after  him  a  finikin  lass. 

Did  shine  like  the  glistering  gold. 
['03] 


Hobin  l^ooo  ano 

"  This  is  not  a  fit  match,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"  That  you  do  seem  to  make  here ; 

For  since  we  are  come  into  the  church. 
The  bride  shall  chuse  her  own  dear." 

Then  Robin  Hood  put  his  horn  to  his  mouth, 

And  blew  blasts  two  and  three ; 
When  four-and-twenty  bowmen  bold 

Came  leaping  over  the  lea. 

And  when  they  came  into  the  church-yard, 

Marching  all  in  a  row. 
The  first  man  was  Allen-a-Dale, 

To  give  bold  Robin  his  bow. 

"  This  is  thy  true  love,"  Robin  he  said, 

"  Young  Allen,  as  I  hear  say ; 
And  you  shall  be  married  this  same  time, 

Before  we  depart  away." 

"  That  shall  not  be,"  the  bishop  he  cried, 

"  For  thy  word  shall  not  stand ; 
They  shall  be  three  times  asked  in  the  church. 

As  the  law  is  of  our  land." 
[104] 


Robin  Hood  pulled  off  the  bishop's  coat. 

And  put  it  upon  Little  John ; 
"  By  the  faith  of  my  body,'*  then  Robin  said, 

"  This  cloth  doth  make  thee  a  man." 

When  Little  John  went  into  the  quire, 

The  people  began  to  laugh ; 
He  asked  them  seven  times  into  church. 

Lest  three  times  should  not  be  enough. 

"  Who  gives  me  this  maid  ?  "  said  Little  John, 
Quoth  Robin  Hood,  "  That  do  I ; 

And  he  that  takes  her  from  Allen-a-Dale, 
Full  dearly  he  shall  her  buy.** 

And  then  having  ended  this  merry  wedding. 

The  bride  looked  like  a  queen ; 
And  so  they  returned  to  the  merry  greenwood, 

Amongst  the  leaves  so  green. 


[■05] 


Kobin  i^ooD  anD  dPu^  of  (^i&hovnt 


When  shaws  beene  sheene,  and  shradds  full  fayre. 

And  leaves  both  large  and  longe, 
Itt  is  merrye  walkyng  in  the  fayre  forrest 

To  heare  the  small  birdes  songe. 

The  woodweele  sang,  and  wold  not  cease. 

Sitting  upon  the  spraye, 
Soe  lowde,  he  wakened  Robin  Hood, 

In  the  greenwood  where  he  lay. 

"  Now,  by  my  faye,"  sayd  jollye  Robin, 

"  A  sweaven  I  had  this  night ; 
I  dreamt  me  of  tow  wighty  yemen. 

That  fast  with  me  can  fight. 
[io6] 


Uobtn  l^ood  ant)  6u^  of  ^tetorne 

"  Methought  they  did  mee  beate  and  binde. 

And  tooke  my  bow  mee  froe ; 
IfFI  be  Robin  alive  in  this  lande. 

He  be  wroken  on  them  towc." 

"  Sweavens  are  swift,  master,"  quoth  John, 
"  As  the  wind  that  blowes  ore  the  hill ; 

For  if  itt  be  never  so  loude  this  night, 
To-morrow  it  may  be  still.** 

"  Buske  yee,  bowne  yec,  my  merry  men  all, 

And  John  shall  goc  with  mee. 
For  He  goe  seeke  yond  wight  yeomen, 

In  greenwood  where  the  bee.** 

Then  they  cast  on  their  gownes  of  grenc, 
And  tooke  theyr  bowes  each  one ; 

And  they  away  to  the  greene  forrest 
A  shooting  forth  are  gone ; 

Untill  they  came  to  the  merry  greenwood. 
Where  they  had  gladdest  to  bee ; 

There  were  they  ware  of  a  wight  yeoman, 
His  body  leaned  to  a  tree. 
[■°7] 


A  sword  and  a  dagger  he  wore  by  his  side. 

Of  manye  a  man  the  bane ; 
And  he  was  clad  in  his  capull  hyde, 

Topp  and  tayll  and  mayne. 

"  Stand  you  still,  master,"  quoth  Little  John, 

"  Under  this  tree  so  grene. 
And  I  will  go  to  yond  wight  yeoman 

To  know  what  he  doth  meane." 

"  Ah  !  John,  by  me  thou  settest  noe  store. 

And  that  I  farley  finde : 
How  offt  send  I  my  men  beffore. 

And  tarry  my  selfe  behinde ! 

"  It  is  no  cunning  a  knave  to  ken. 
And  a  man  but  heare  him  speake ; 

And  itt  were  not  for  bursting  of  my  bowe, 
John,  I  thy  head  wold  breake." 

As  often  wordes  they  breeden  bale. 
So  they  parted  Robin  and  John ; 

And  John  is  gone  to  Barnesdale ; 
The  gates  he  knoweth  eche  one. 
[108] 


^u^  of  6i0borne 

But  when  he  came  to  Barnesdale, 
Great  heavinesse  there  hee  hadd, 

For  he  found  tow  of  his  owne  fellowes 
Were  slaine  both  in  a  slade. 

And  Scarlette  he  was  flying  a-foote 

Faste  over  stocke  and  stone, 
For  the  sheri fFe  with  seven  score  men 

Fast  after  him  is  gone. 

"  One  shoote  now  I  will  shootc,"  quoth  John, 
"With  Christ  his  might  and  mayne; 

He  make  yond  fellow  that  flyes  soe  fast, 
To  stopp  he  shall  be  fayne." 

Then  John  bent  up  his  long  bende-bowe. 

And  fetteled  him  to  shoote : 
The  bow  was  made  of  tender  boughe. 

And  fell  down  to  his  foote. 

"  Woe  worth,  woe  worth  thee,  wicked  wood, 

That  ere  thou  grew  on  a  tree ; 
For  now  this  day  thou  art  my  bale. 

My  boote  when  thou  shold  bee." 
£109] 


Uobtn  l^ooo  anD 

His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  shott. 

Yet  flewe  not  the  arrowe  in  vaine, 
For  itt  mett  one  of  the  sherrifFes  men. 

Good  William  a  Trent  was  slaine. 

It  had  bene  better  of  William  a  Trent 

To  have  bene  abed  with  sorrowe. 
Than  to  be  that  day  in  the  green-wood  slade 

To  meet  with  Little  Johns  arrowe. 

But  as  it  is  said,  when  men  be  mett 

Fyve  can  doe  more  than  three. 
The  sheriffe  hath  taken  Little  John, 

And  bound  him  fast  to  a  tree. 

*'  Thou  shalt  be  drawen  by  dale  and  downe, 

And  hanged  hye  on  a  hill ; " 
"  But  thou  mayst  fayle  of  thy  purpose,"  quoth 
John, 

"If  itt  be  Christ  his  will." 

Lett  us  leave  talking  of  Little  John, 

And  thinke  of  Robin  Hood, 
How  he  is  gone  to  the  wight  yeoman. 

Where  under  the  leaves  he  stood, 
[no] 


^tt^  of  ai^bome 

"  Good  morrowe,  good  fellowe,"  sayd  Robin  so 
fayre, 
Good  morrowe,  good  fellow,"  quoth  he. 
Methinks  by  this  bowe  thou  beares  in  thy  hande, 
A  good  archere  thou  sholdst  bee/* 

"  I  am  wilfulle  of  my  waye,"  quo'  the  yeoman, 

"  And  of  my  morning  tyde  :  " 
"  He  lead  thee  through  the  wood,"  sayd  Robin, 

"  Good  fellow.  He  be  thy  guide." 

"  I  seeke  an  outlawc,"  the  straungcr  sayd, 

"  Men  call  him  Robin  Hood ; 
Rather  lid  meet  with  that  proud  outlawc 

Than  fortye  pound  soe  good." 

"  Now  come  with  me,  thou  wight  yeman, 

And  Robin  thou  soone  shalt  see ; 
But  first  let  us  some  pastime  find 

Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

"  First  let  us  some  masterye  make 

Among  the  woods  so  even ; 
We  may  chance  to  meet  with  Robin  Hood 

Here  att  some  unsett  Steven." 

[.I.] 


Uobin  l^ooD  and 

They  cutt  them  down  two  summer  shroggs. 

That  grew  both  under  a  breere. 
And  set  them  threescore  rood  in  twaine. 

To  shoote  the  prickes  y-fere. 

"  Leade  on,  good  fellowe,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 

"  Leade  on,  I  doe  bidd  thee." 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,  good  fellowe,"  hee  sayd, 

"  My  leader  thou  shalt  bee." 

The  first  time  Robin  shot  at  the  pricke. 

He  mist  but  an  inch  it  fro ; 
The  yeoman  he  was  an  archer  good, 

But  he  cold  never  shoote  soe. 

The  second  shoote  had  the  wightye  yeoman. 

He  shote  within  the  garlande ; 
But  Robin  he  shott  far  better  than  hee. 

For  he  clave  the  good  pricke-wande. 

"  A  blessing  upon  thy  heart,"  he  sayd, 
"  Good  fellowe,  thy  shooting  is  goode  ; 

For  an  thy  hart  be  as  good  as  thy  hand. 
Thou  wert  better  then  Robin  Hoode. 

[I.Z] 


^n^  of  ^ifl^bome 

"  Now  tell  me  thy  name,  good  fellowe,"  sayd  he, 

"Under  the  leaves  of  lyne." 
"  Nay,  by  my  faith,"  quoth  bolde  Robin, 

"Till  thou  have  told  me  thine." 

"  I  dwell  by  dale  and  downe,"  quoth  hee, 

"And  Robin  to  take  I  me  sworne; 
And  when  I  am  called  by  my  right  name, 

I  am  Guy  of  good  Gisborne." 

"  My  dwelling  is  in  this  wood,"  sayes  Robin, 

"  By  thee  I  set  right  nought : 
I  am  Robin  Hood  of  Barnesdale, 

Whom  thou  so  long  hast  sought." 

He  that  had  neither  beene  kithc  nor  kin. 

Might  have  seen  a  full  fayre  sight. 
To  see  how  together  these  yeomen  went 

With  blades  both  browne  and  bright : 

To  see  how  these  yeomen  together  they  fought 

Two  howres  of  a  summers  day, 
Yett  neither  Robin  Hood  nor  Sir  Guy 

Them  fettled  to  flye  away. 
B  [113] 


Uobin  ^(^t>  anD 

Robin  was  reachles  on  a  roote, 

And  stumbled  at  that  tyde ; 
And  Guy  was  quicke  and  nimble  with-all, 

And  hitt  him  ore  the  left  side. 

"  Ah,  deere  Lady,"  sayd  Robin  Hood  tho, 
"  Thou  art  but  mother  and  may* ; 

I  think  it  was  never  mans  destinye 
To  dye  before  his  day." 

Robin  thought  on  Our  Ladye  deere, 

And  soone  leapt  up  againe. 
And  strait  he  came  with  a  '  backward  *  stroke, 

And  he  Sir  Guy  hath  slayne. 

He  took  Sir  Guy's  head  by  the  hayre, 
And  stuck  itt  upon  his  bowes  end : 

"  Thou  hast  beene  a  traytor  all  thy  liffe, 
Which  thing  must  have  an  end." 

Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irish  knifFe, 
And  nicked  Sir  Guy  in  the  face. 

That  he  was  never  on  woman  born 
Cold  tell  whose  head  it  was. 
["4] 


^n^  of  ^t0bomf 

Saycs,  "  Lye  there,  lye  there  now,  Sir  Guy, 

And  with  me  be  not  wrothe ; 
Iff  thou  have  had  the  worst  strokes  at  my  hand, 

Thou  shalt  have  the  better  clothe." 

Robin  did  off  his  gowne  of  greene. 

And  on  Sir  Guy  did  throwe, 
And  hee  put  on  that  capull  hydc, 

That  cladd  him  topp  to  toe. 

"  The  bowe,  the  arrowes,  and  litle  home, 

Now  with  me  I  will  beare ; 
For  I  will  away  to  Barnesdale, 

To  see  how  my  men  doe  fare." 

Robin  Hood  sett  Guy*s  home  to  his  mouth, 

And  a  loud  blast  in  it  did  blow : 
That  beheard  the  sheriffe  of  Nottingham, 

As  he  leaned  under  a  lowe. 

"  Hearken,  hearken,"  sayd  the  sheriffe, 

"  I  heare  nowe  ty dings  good, 
For  yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guy*s  home  blowe, 

And  he  hath  slaine  Robin  Hoode. 
[••5] 


Hobin  J^ooU  anu 

"Yonder  I  heare  Sir  Guy*s  home  blowe, 

Itt  blowes  soe  well  in  tyde. 
And  yonder  comes  that  wightye  yeoman, 

Cladd  in  his  capull  hyde. 

"  Come  hyther,  come  hyther,  thou  good  Sir  Guy, 

Aske  what  thou  wilt  of  mee." 
"  O  I  will  none  of  thy  gold,"  sayd  Robin, 

"  Nor  I  will  none  of  thy  fee. 

"  But  now  I  have  slaine  the  master,"  he  sayes, 

''  Let  me  goe  strike  the  knave ; 
For  this  is  all  the  rewarde  I  aske. 

Nor  noe  other  will  I  have." 

"  Thou  art  a  madman,"  said  the  sheriffe, 
"  Thou  sholdst  have  had  a  knightes  fee ; 

But  seeing  thy  asking  hath  beene  soe  bad. 
Well  granted  it  shale  be." 

When  Little  John  heard  his  master  speake. 

Well  knewe  he  it  was  his  Steven ; 
"  Now  shall  I  be  looset,"  quoth  Little  John, 

"  With  Christ  his  might  in  heaven." 
[..6] 


^u^  of  6i0bome 

Fast  Robin  hee  hyed  him  to  Little  John, 

He  thought  to  loose  him  belive : 
The  sherifFe  and  all  his  companye 

Fast  after  him  can  drive. 

"  Stand  abacke,  stand  abacke,"  sayd  Robin  ; 

"  Why  draw  you  mee  so  neere  ? 
Itt  was  never  the  use  in  our  countryc. 

Ones  shrift  another  shold  heere." 

But  Robin  pulled  forth  an  Irysh  knife, 

And  losed  John  hand  and  foote, 
And  gave  him  Sir  Guy's  bow  into  his  hand, 

And  bade  it  be  his  boote. 

Then  John  he  took  Guy's  bow  in  his  hand, 

His  boltes  and  arrowes  eche  one : 
When  the  sheriffe  saw  Little  John  bend  his  bow, 

He  fettled  him  to  be  gone. 

Towards  his  house  in  Nottingham  townc 

He  fled  ftill  fast  away, 
And  soe  did  all  the  companye, 

Not  one  behind  wold  stay. 
[■■7] 


Hobin  l^ooD  anD  ^u^  of  ^i^bome 

But  he  cold  neither  runne  soe  fast, 

Nor  away  soe  fast  cold  ryde, 
But  Little  John  with  an  arrowe  soe  broad 

He  shott  him  into  the  '  backe  '-syde. 


[„8] 


IRobin  !^ooD*j2!  J^tat^  anu  TSurtal 

When  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John 
Down  a  dowtiy  a  down^  a  dowriy 
Went  o'er  yon  bank  of  broom, 
Said  Robin  Hood  to  Little  John, 
"  We  have  shot  for  many  a  pound : 
Hey  dowHy  a  dowfiy  a  down. 

"  But  I  am  not  able  to  shoot  one  shot  more. 

My  arrows  will  not  flee ; 
But  I  have  a  cousin  lives  down  below. 

Please  God,  she  will  bleed  me." 


Now  Robin  is  to  fair  Kirkley  gone. 
As  fast  as  he  can  win ; 


Uobin  l^ooD'fi? 

But  before  he  came  there,  as  we  do  hear. 
He  was  taken  very  ill. 

And  when  that  he  came  to  fair  Kirlcley-hall, 

He  knocked  all  at  the  ring, 
But  none  was  so  ready  as  his  cousin  herself 

For  to  let  bold  Robin  in. 

"  Will  you  please  to  sit  down,  cousin  Robin,**  she 
said, 

"  And  drink  some  beer  with  me  ?  *' 
"  No,  I  will  neither  eat  nor  drink. 

Till  I  am  blooded  by  thee.*' 

"  Well,  I  have  a  room,  cousin  Robin,"  she  said, 

"  Which  you  did  never  see  ; 
And  if  you  please  to  walk  therein, 

You  blooded  by  me  shall  be.*' 

She  took  him  by  the  lily-white  hand. 

And  led  him  to  a  private  room ; 
And  there  she  blooded  bold  Robin  Hood, 

Whilst  one  drop  of  blood  would  run. 
[120] 


SDeacI^  anD  Burial 

She  blooded  him  in  the  vein  of  the  arm, 
And  locked  him  up  in  the  room ; 

There  did  he  bleed  all  the  live-long  day. 
Until  the  next  day  at  noon. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  a  casement  door, 

Thinking  for  to  begone ; 
He  was  so  weak  he  could  not  leap, 

Nor  he  could  not  get  down. 

He  then  bethought  him  of  his  bugle-horn, 
Which  hung  low  down  to  his  knee. 

He  set  his  horn  unto  his  mouth. 
And  blew  out  weak  blasts  three. 

Then  Little  John,  when  hearing  him, 

As  he  sat  under  the  tree, 
"  I  fear  my  master  is  near  dead. 

He  blows  so  wearily." 

Then  Little  John  to  Fair  Kirkley  is  gone, 

As  fast  as  he  can  dree ; 
But  when  he  came  to  Kirkley-hall, 

He  broke  locks  two  or  three ; 
[III] 


Until  he  came  bold  Robin  to, 

Then  he  fell  on  his  knee ; 
"  A  boon,  a  boon,"  cries  Little  John, 

"  Master,  I  beg  of  thee." 

"  What  is  that  boon,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"  Little  John,  thou  begst  of  me  ?  " 

"  It  is  to  burn  fair  Kirkley-hall, 
And  all  their  nunnery." 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,"  quoth  Robin  Hood, 
"  That  boon  TU  not  grant  thee ; 

I  never  hurt  woman  in  all  my  life. 
Nor  man  in  woman's  company. 

"  I  never  hurt  fair  maid  in  all  my  time, 

Nor  at  my  end  shall  it  be ; 
But  give  me  my  bent  bow  in  my  hand, 

And  a  broad  arrow  I'll  let  flee ; 
And  where  this  arrow  is  taken  up. 

There  shall  my  grave  digged  be. 

"  Lay  me  a  green  sod  under  my  head. 
And  another  under  my  feet ; 
[122] 


SDeatti  anD  burial 

And  lay  my  bent  bow  by  my  side, 

Which  was  my  music  sweet ; 
And  make  my  grave  of  gravel  and  green, 

Which  is  most  right  and  meet. 

"  Let  me  have  length  and  breadth  enough, 
With  a  green  sod  under  my  head ; 

That  they  may  say  when  I  am  dead, 
Here  lies  bold  Robin  Hood." 

These  words  they  readily  promised  him, 
Which  did  bold  Robin  please ; 

And  there  they  buried  bold  Robin  Hood, 
Near  to  the  fair  Kirkleys. 


['^3J 


Cl^e  Ctoa  Corbfejs 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane, 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  maen : 

The  tane  unto  the  thither  did  say, 

"  Whaur  shall  we  gang  and  dine  the  day  ? " 

"  O  doun  beside  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  knight ; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  his  lady  fair. 


"  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane. 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame. 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
Sae  we  may  mak*  our  dinner  sweet. 
[1^4] 


XE^t  tirtoa  Corbies 

"  O  we*ll  sit  on  his  white  hause  bane, 
And  ril  pyke  out  his  bonny  blue  e*en; 
Wi*  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  blaws  bare 

"  Mony  a  ane  for  him  makes  maen, 
But  nane  shall  ken  whaur  he  is  gane. 
Over  his  banes  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  shall  blaw  for  evermair." 


[««53 


malVi  maVgy  JLobe  be  isomv 


A    SCOTTISH    SONG 


0  WALY,  waly  up  the  bank, 
And  waly,  waly  down  the  brae. 

And  waly,  waly  yon  burn  side. 

Where  I  and  my  love  were  wont  to  gae. 

1  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree ; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brak, 
Sae  my  true  love  did  lichtly  me. 

O  waly,  waly,  but  gin  love  be  bonny, 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new ; 
But  when  its  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld. 

And  fades  awa*  like  morning  dew. 
[126] 


WSM^,  Wal^t  iLobe  be  HBonn^ 

O  wherfore  shuld  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherfore  shuld  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  loe  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-Seat  sail  be  my  bed, 

The  sheets  shall  neir  be  prest  by  me : 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw, 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree  ? 
O  gentle  death,  when  wilt  thou  cum  ? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearic. 

*Tis  not  the  frost  that  freezes  fell. 

Nor  blawing  snaws  inclemencie; 
*Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
Whan  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town. 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see ; 
My  love  was  clad  in  black  velvet. 

And  I  mysell  in  cramasie. 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist. 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win. 


Mal^,  WM^,  tlobe  be  Bonn^ 

I  had  lockt  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gowd. 
And  pinnd  it  with  a  siller  pin. 

And,  oh  !  that  my  young  babe  were  born, 
And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 

And  I  mysell  were  dead  and  gane ! 
And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me. 


[128] 


Cl^e  0rt^l)rotDn  a^aiD 


Be  it  right,  or  wrong,  these  men  among 

On  women  do  complain ; 
Affirming  this,  how  that  it  is 

A  labour  spent  in  vain 
To  love  them  wele ;  for  never  a  dele 

They  love  a  man  again : 
For  let  a  man  do  what  he  can, 

Their  favour  to  attain, 
Yet,  if  a  new  do  them  pursue. 

Their  first  true  lover  then 
Laboureth  for  nought ;  for  from  her  thought 

He  is  a  banished  man. 
I  [129] 


I  say  not  nay,  but  that  all  day 

It  is  both  writ  and  said 
That  woman's  faith  is,  as  who  saith. 

All  utterly  decayed ; 
But,  nevertheless,  right  good  witness 

In  this  case  might  be  laid. 
That  they  love  true,  and  continue. 

Record  the  Nut-brown  Maid : 
Which,  when  her  love  came,  her  to  prove, 

To  her  to  make  his  moan. 
Would  not  depart ;  for  in  her  heart 

She  loved  but  him  alone. 


Then  between  us  let  us  discuss 

What  was  all  the  manere 
Between  them  two  :  we  will  also 

Tell  all  the  pain,  and  fere. 
That  she  was  in.     Now  I  begin. 

So  that  ye  me  answere ; 
Wherefore,  all  ye,  that  present  be 

I  pray  you,  give  an  ear. 
I  am  the  knight ;  I  come  by  night. 

As  secret  as  I  can ; 
[130] 


Saying,  '  Alas  !  thus  standeth  the  case, 
I  am  a  banished  man/ 


SHB 

And  I  your  will  for  to  fulfil 

In  this  will  not  refuse; 
Trusting  to  shew,  in  wordes  few, 

That  men  have  an  ill  use 
(To  their  own  shame)  women  to  blame, 

And  causeless  them  accuse : 
Therefore  to  you  I  answer  now. 

All  women  to  excuse,  — 
Mine  own  heart  dear,  with  you  what  chere  ? 

I  pray  you,  tell  anone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

It  Standeth  so ;  a  dede  is  do 

Whereof  great  harm  shall  grow : 

My  destiny  is  for  to  die 
A  shameful  death,  I  trowe ; 
[131] 


Or  else  to  flee :  the  one  must  be. 

None  other  way  I  know. 
But  to  withdraw  as  an  outlaw. 

And  take  me  to  my  bow. 
Wherefore,  adieu,  my  own  heart  true ! 

None  other  rede  I  can : 
For  I  must  to  the  green  wood  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

0  Lord,  what  is  this  worldys  bliss. 
That  changeth  as  the  moon  ! 

My  summer's  day  in  lusty  May 
Is  darked  before  the  noon. 

1  hear  you  say,  farewell :  Nay,  nay. 
We  depart  not  so  soon. 

Why  say  ye  so  ?  wheder  will  ye  go  ? 

Alas  !  what  have  ye  done  ? 
All  my  welfare  to  sorrow  and  care 

Should  change,  if  ye  were  gone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 
[132] 


HE 

I  can  believe,  it  shall  you  grieve, 

And  somewhat  you  distrain ; 
But,  afterward,  your  paines  hard 

Within  a  day  or  twain 
Shall  soon  aslake ;  and  yc  shall  take 

Comfort  to  you  again. 
Why  should  ye  ought  ?  for,  to  make  thought 

Your  labour  were  in  vain. 
And  thus  I  do ;  and  pray  you  to. 

As  heartily  as  I  can ; 
For  I  must  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


8HB 

Now,  sith  that  ye  have  shewed  to  me 

The  secret  of  your  mind, 
I  shall  be  plain  to  you  again. 

Like  as  ye  shall  me  find. 
Sith  it  is  so,  that  ye  will  go, 

I  woUe  not  leave  behind ; 
Shall  never  be  said,  the  Nut-brown  Maid 

Was  to  her  love  unkind : 
['33] 


Make  you  ready,  for  so  am  I, 
Although  it  were  anone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

Yet  I  you  rede  to  take  good  heed 

What  men  will  think  and  say : 
Of  young  and  old  it  shall  be  told, 

That  ye  be  gone  away, 
Your  wanton  will  for  to  fulfil, 

In  green  wood  you  to  play ; 
And  that  ye  might  from  your  delight 

No  longer  make  delay. 
Rather  than  ye  should  thus  for  me 

Be  called  an  ill  woman, 
Yet  would  I  to  the  green  wood  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Though  it  be  sung  of  old  and  young. 
That  I  should  be  to  blame, 
[134] 


Theirs  be  the  charge,  that  speak  so  large 

In  hurting  of  my  name : 
For  I  will  prove,  that,  faithful  love 

It  is  devoid  of  shame ; 
In  your  distress,  and  heaviness, 

To  part  with  you,  the  same : 
And  sure  all  tho,  that  do  not  so, 

True  lovers  are  they  none ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HB 


I  counsel  you,  remember  how. 

It  is  no  maiden's  law. 
Nothing  to  doubt,  but  to  renne  out 

To  wood  with  an  outlaw : 
For  ye  must  there  in  your  hand  bear 

A  bow,  ready  to  draw ; 
And,  as  a  thief,  thus  must  you  live. 

Ever  in  dread  and  awe ; 
Whereby  to  you  great  harm  might  grow 

Yet  had  I  lever  than, 
[-35] 


That  I  had  to  the  green  wood  go, 
Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

I  think  not  nay,  but  as  ye  say. 

It  is  no  maiden's  lore ; 
But  love  may  make  me  for  your  sake. 

As  I  have  said  before. 
To  come  on  foot,  to  hunt,  and  shoot 

To  get  us  meat  in  store ; 
For  so  that  I  your  company 

May  have,  I  ask  no  more : 
From  which  to  part,  it  maketh  my  heart 

As  cold  as  any  stone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

For  an  outlaw  this  is  the  law, 
That  men  him  take  and  bind ; 

Without  pity,  hanged  to  be, 
And  waver  with  the  wind. 
[136] 


If  I  had  nede,  (as  God  forbede !) 

What  rescue  could  ye  find  ? 
Forsooth,  I  trow,  ye  and  your  bow 

For  fear  would  draw  behind : 
And  no  mervayle :  for  little  avail 

Were  in  your  counsel  then : 
Wherefore  I  will  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Right  well  know  ye,  that  women  be 

But  feeble  for  to  fight ; 
No  womanhede  it  is  indeed 

To  be  bold  as  a  knight : 
Yet,  in  such  fear  if  that  ye  were 

With  enemies  day  or  night, 
I  would  withstand,  with  bow  in  hand, 

To  greve  them  as  I  might. 
And  you  to  save ;  as  women  have 

From  death  men  many  a  one : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 
['37] 


tEP^e  ^xiubtmn  ^atO 


HE 


Yet  take  good  hede ;  for  ever  I  drede 

That  ye  could  not  sustain 
The  thorny  ways,  the  deep  valleys, 

The  snow,  the  frost,  the  rain. 
The  cold,  the  heat :  for  dry,  or  wet. 

We  must  lodge  on  the  plain ; 
And,  us  above,  none  other  roof 

But  a  brake  bush,  or  twain ; 
Which  soon  should  grieve  you,  I  believe 

And  ye  would  gladly  then 
That  I  had  to  the  green  wood  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Sith  I  have  here  been  partynere 

With  you  of  joy  and  bliss, 
I  must  also  part  of  your  woe 

Endure,  as  reason  is : 
Yet  am  I  sure  of  one  pleasure ; 

And,  shortly,  it  is  this : 
That,  where  ye  be,  me  seemeth,  parde, 

I  could  not  fare  amiss. 

C'38] 


turtle  i^ttt^btoton  ^aCH 

Without  more  speech,  I  you  beseech 
That  we  were  soon  agone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

If  ye  go  thyder,  ye  must  consider, 

When  ye  have  lust  to  dine. 
There  shall  no  meat  be  for  you  gete. 

Nor  drink,  beer,  ale,  nor  wine. 
No  shetes  clean,  to  lie  between. 

Made  of  thread  and  twine ; 
None  other  house,  but  leaves  and  boughs, 

To  cover  your  head  and  mine ; 
O  mine  heart  sweet,  this  evil  diete 

Should  make  you  pale  and  wan ; 
Wherefore  I  will  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Among  the  wild  dere,  such  an  archere, 
As  men  say  that  ye  be, 
[139] 


Ne  may  not  fail  of  good  vitayle, 

Where  is  so  great  plenty : 
And  water  clear  of  the  ryvere 

Shall  be  full  sweet  to  me ; 
With  which  in  hele  I  shall  right  welc 

Endure,  as  ye  shall  see ; 
And,  or  we  go,  a  bed  or  two 

I  can  provide  anone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

Lo !  yet,  before,  ye  must  do  more. 

If  ye  will  go  with  me  : 
As  cut  your  hair  up  by  your  ear, 

Your  kirtle  by  the  knee ; 
With  bow  in  hand,  for  to  withstand 

Your  enemies,  if  need  be  : 
And  this  same  night  before  day-light. 

To  wood-ward  will  I  flee. 
If  that  ye  will  all  this  fulfil. 

Do  it  shortly  as  ye  can ; 
[140] 


Else  will  I  to  the  green  wood  go. 
Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

I  shall  as  now  do  more  for  you 

Than  'longeth  to  womanhede ; 
To  shorte  my  hair,  a  bow  to  bear. 

To  shoot  in  time  of  need. 
O  my  sweet  mother,  before  all  other 

For  you  I  have  most  dredc : 
But  now,  adieu  !  I  must  ensue, 

Where  fortune  doth  me  lead. 
All  this  make  ye :  Now  let  us  flee ; 

The  day  cometh  fast  upon ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HB 

Nay,  nay,  not  so ;  ye  shall  not  go, 
And  I  shall  tell  ye  why,  — 

Your  appetite  is  to  be  light 
Of  love,  I  wele  espy : 
[■4«] 


For,  like  as  ye  have  said  to  me, 

In  like  v/ise  hardely 
Ye  would  answere  whosoever  it  were 

In  way  of  company. 
It  is  said  of  old,  Soon  hot,  soon  cold 

And  so  is  a  woman. 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

If  ye  take  heed,  it  is  no  need 

Such  words  to  say  by  me ; 
For  oft  ye  prayed,  and  long  assayed, 

Or  I  you  loved,  parde : 
And  though  that  I  of  ancestry 

A  baron's  daughter  be. 
Yet  have  you  proved  how  I  you  loved 

A  squire  of  low  degree  ; 
And  ever  shall,  whatso  befall ; 

To  die  therefore  anone ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


^^t  0nubxo\3)n  ispaio 


HE 


A  baron's  child  to  be  beguiled ! 

It  were  a  cursed  dede ; 
To  be  felawe  with  an  outlawe ! 

Almighty  God  forbede ! 
Yet  better  were,  the  poor  squyere 

Alone  to  forest  yede, 
Than  ye  should  say  another  day, 

That,  by  my  cursed  dede, 
Ye  were  betrayed  :  Wherefore,  good  maid. 

The  best  rede  that  I  can. 
Is,  that  I  to  the  green  wood  go, 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Whatever  befall,  I  never  shall 

Of  this  thing  you  upbraid : 
But  if  ye  go,  and  leave  me  so, 

Then  have  ye  me  betrayed. 
Remember  you  wele,  how  that  ye  dele ; 

For,  if  ye,  as  ye  said. 
Be  so  unkind,  to  leave  behind. 

Your  love,  the  Nut-brown  Maid, 
[H3] 


Trust  me  truly,  that  I  shall  die 
Soon  after  ye  be  gone ; 

For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 
I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

If  that  ye  went,  ye  should  repent ; 

For  in  the  forest  now 
I  have  purvayed  me  of  a  maid. 

Whom  I  love  more  than  you ; 
Another  fayrere,  than  ever  ye  were, 

I  dare  it  wele  avow ; 
And  of  you  both  each  should  be  wroth 

With  other,  as  I  trow : 
It  were  mine  ease,  to  live  in  peace ; 

So  will  I,  if  I  can  ; 
Wherefore  I  to  the  wood  will  go. 

Alone,  a  banished  man. 


SHE 

Though  in  the  wood  I  understood 
Ye  had  a  paramour, 
[H4] 


All  this  may  nought  remove  my  thought, 

But  that  I  will  be  your : 
And  she  shall  find  me  soft  and  kind. 

And  courteys  every  hour ; 
Glad  to  fulfil  all  that  she  will 

Command  me  to  my  power : 
For  had  ye,  lo !  an  hundred  mo. 

Of  them  I  would  be  one ; 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HI 

Mine  own  dear  love,  I  see  the  proof 

That  yc  be  kind  and  true ; 
Of  maid,  and  wife,  in  all  my  life. 

The  best  that  ever  I  knew. 
Be  merry  and  glad,  be  no  more  sad. 

The  case  is  changed  new ; 
For  it  were  ruth,  that,  for  your  truth. 

Ye  should  have  cause  to  rue. 
Be  not  dismayed,  whatsoever  I  said 

To  you,  when  I  began ; 
['45] 


I  will  not  to  the  green  wood  go, 
I  am  no  banished  man. 


SHE 

These  tidings  be  more  glad  to  me, 

Than  to  be  made  a  queen. 
If  I  were  sure  they  should  endure : 

But  it  is  often  seen. 
When  men  will  break  promise,  they  speak 

The  wordes  on  the  splene. 
Ye  shape  some  wile  me  to  beguile. 

And  steal  from  me,  I  ween : 
Then,  were  the  case  worse  than  it  was. 

And  I  more  wo-begone : 
For,  in  my  mind,  of  all  mankind 

I  love  but  you  alone. 


HE 

Ye  shall  not  nede  further  to  drede ; 

I  will  not  disparage 
You,  (God  defend !)  sith  ye  descend 

Of  so  great  a  lineage. 
C146] 


Now  understand  ;  to  Westmoreland, 

Which  is  mine  heritage, 
I  will  you  bring ;  and  with  a  ring, 

By  way  of  marriage 
I  will  you  take,  and  lady  make, 

As  shortly  as  I  can : 
Thus  have  you  won  an  erly's  son, 

And  not  a  banished  man. 


AUTHOR 

Here  may  ye  see,  that  women  be 

In  love,  meek,  kind,  and  stable; 
Let  never  man  reprove  them  then. 

Or  call  them  variable ; 
But,  rather,  pray  God  that  we  may 

To  them  be  comfortable ; 
Which  sometime  proveth  such,  as  he  loveth. 

If  they  be  charitable. 
For  sith  men  would  that  women  should 

Be  meek  to  them  each  one ; 
Much  more  ought  they  to  God  obey. 

And  serve  but  Him  alone. 

[-47] 


A  FAIR  maid  sat  in  her  bower  door. 

Wringing  her  lily  hands  ; 
And  by  it  came  a  sprightly  youth. 

Fast  tripping  o*er  the  strands. 

"  Where  gang  ye,  young  John,"  she  says, 

"  Sae  early  in  the  day  ? 
It  gars  me  think,  by  your  fast  trip. 

Your  journey's  far  away." 

He  turn'd  about  wi*  surly  look. 
And  said,  "  What's  that  to  thee  ? 

I'm  ga'en  to  see  a  lovely  maid, 
Mair  fairer  far  than  ye." 
[148] 


dTlie  iFauife  ilobet 

"  Now  hae  ye  play'd  me  this,  fause  love, 

In  simmer,  *mid  the  flowers  ? 
I  shall  repay  ye  back  again. 

In  winter,  *mid  the  showers. 

"  But  again,  dear  love,  and  again,  dear  love, 

Will  ye  not  turn  again  ? 
For  as  ye  look  to  ither  women, 

I  shall  do  to  other  men." 

'**  Make  your  choice  o*  whom  you  please. 

For  I  my  choice  will  have ; 
I've  chosen  a  maid  more  fair  than  thee, 

I  never  will  deceive.** 

But  she's  kilt  up  her  claithing  fine. 

And  after  him  gaed  she ; 
But  aye  he  said,  "  Ye*ll  turn  again, 

Nae  farder  gae  wi*  me.** 

"  But  again,  dear  love,  and  again,  dear  love, 

Will  ye  never  love  me  again  ? 
Alas  !  for  loving  you  sae  well. 

And  you  na  me  again.** 
[»49] 


The  firstan*  town  that  they  came  till, 
He  bought  her  brooch  and  ring ; 

But  aye  he  bade  her  turn  again, 
And  gang  nae  farder  wi'  him. 

"  But  again,  dear  love,  and  again,  dear  love,"  etc. 

The  nextan*  town  that  they  came  till, 
He  bought  her  mufF  and  gloves ; 

But  aye  he  bade  her  turn  again. 
And  choose  some  other  loves. 

"  But  again,  dear  love,  and  again,  dear  love,"  etc. 

The  nextan'  town  that  they  came  till. 

His  heart  it  grew  mair  fain ; 
And  he  was  deep  in  love  wi*  her. 

As  she  was  ower  again. 

The  nextan'  town  that  they  came  till. 
He  bought  her  wedding  gown ; 

And  made  her  lady  o*  ha's  and  bowers. 
In  sweet  Berwick  town. 

[ISO] 


Cl^e  iHcrmaiD 

To  yon  fause  stream  that,  near  the  sea, 
Hides  mony  an  elf  and  plum. 

And  rives  wi*  fearful  din  the  stanes, 
A  witless  knicht  did  come. 

The  day  shines  clear  —  far  in  he's  gane 
Whar  shells  are  silver  bright. 

Fishes  war  loupin*  a*  aroun*, 
And  sparklin'  to  the  light. 


Whan,  as  he  laved,  sounds  cam  sae  sweet 

Frae  ilka  rock  an'  tree ; 
The  brief  was  out,  'twas  him  it  doomed 

The  mermaid's  face  to  see. 


Frae  *neath  a  rock,  sune,  sune  she  rose. 

And  stately  on  she  swam. 
Stopped  i'  the  midst,  and  becked  and  sang 

To  him  to  stretch  his  han*. 

Gowden  glist  the  yellow  links 

That  round  her  neck  she'd  twine ; 

Her  een  war  o*  the  skyie  blue. 
Her  lips  did  mock  the  wine ; 

The  smile  upon  her  bonnie  cheek 

Was  sweeter  than  the  bee ; 
Her  voice  excelled  the  birdie's  sang 

Upon  the  birchen  tree. 

Sae  couthie,  couthie  did  she  look. 
And  meikle  had  she  fleeched ; 

Out  shot  his  hand  —  alas  !  alas  ! 
Fast  in  the  swirl  he  screeched. 

The  mermaid  leuch,  her  brief  was  gane, 
And  kelpie's  blast  was  blawin', 

Fu'  low  she  duked,  ne'er  raise  again. 
For  deep,  deep  was  the  fawin'. 


Aboon  the  stream  his  wraith  was  seen, 
Warlochs  tirled  lang  at  gloamin' ; 

That  e'en  was  coarse,  the  blast  blew  hoarse, 
Ere  lang  the  waves  war  foamin'. 


r'53] 


Ci^e  TBattle  of  fiDtterbwn 

THE    FIRST    FYTTE 

It  fell  about  the  Lammas  tide, 

When  husbands  winn  their  hay. 
The  doughty  Douglas  bound  him  to  ride 
Into  England  to  take  a  prey. 

The  Earl  of  Fife,  withouten  strife. 

He  bound  him  over  Solway ; 
The  great  would  ever  together  ride ; 

That  race  they  may  rue  for  aye. 

Over  Ottercap  hill  they  came  in. 
And  so  down  by  Rotheley  crag. 

Upon  Green  Leighton  they  lighted  down, 
Styrande  many  a  stag ; 
[>54] 


tirtie  battle  of  <t^tterbum 

And  boldly  brente  Northumberland, 

And  harried  many  a  town ; 
They  did  our  Englishmen  great  wrong 

To  battle  that  were  not  bown. 

Then  spake  a  berne  upon  the  bent, 

Of  comfort  that  was  not  cold, 
And  said,  "  We  have  brente  Northumberland, 

We  have  all  wealth  in  holde. 

"  Now  we  have  harried  all  Bamborough  shire 
All  the  wealth  in  the  world  have  wc; 

I  rede  we  ride  to  Newcastle, 
So  still  and  stalworthlyc." 

Upon  the  morrow,  when  it  was  day, 
The  standards  shone  full  bright ; 

To  the  Newcastle  they  took  the  way. 
And  thither  they  came  full  right. 

Sir  Henry  Percy  lay  at  the  Newcastle, 

I  tell  you,  withouten  dread ; 
He  has  been  a  March-man  all  his  days. 

And  kept  Berwick  upon  Tweed. 
C>5S] 


tH^^e  llBattU  of  (^tttthxixn 

To  the  Newcastle  when  they  came. 

The  Scots  they  cried  on  hyght : 
"  Sir  Harry  Percy,  an  thou  bist  within. 

Come  to  the  field  and  fight : 

"  For  we  have  brente  Northumberland, 

Thy  heritage  good  and  right ; 
And  syne  my  lodging  I  have  take, 

With  my  brand  dubbed  many  a  knight." 

Sir  Harry  Percy  came  to  the  walls. 

The  Scottish  host  for  to  see : 
"  And  thou  hast  brente  Northumberland, 

Full  sore  it  rueth  me. 

"  If  thou  hast  harried  all  Bamborough  shire. 

Thou  hast  done  me  great  envy ;  ■ 

For  the  trespass  thou  hast  me  done,  j 

The  one  of  us  shall  die."  ) 

"  Where  shall  I  bide  thee  ? "  said  the  Douglas ;  ^ 

"  Or  where  wilt  thou  come  to  me  ?  "  ;| 

"  At  Otterburn  in  the  high  way,  ji 

There  mayst  thou  well  lodged  be.  '^ 

['56]  I 


Wf)t  5l5attle  of  (Dtterbum 

"  The  roe  full  reckless  there  she  runs, 

To  make  thee  game  and  glee ; 
The  falcon  and  the  pheasant  both, 

Among  the  holtes  on  hee. 

"There  mayst  thou  have  thy  wealth  at  will, 
Well  lodged  there  mayst  thou  be ; 

It  shall  not  be  long  ere  I  come  thee  till," 
Said  Sir  Harry  Percye. 

"  There  shall  I  bide  thee,"  said  the  Douglas, 

"  By  the  faith  of  my  body." 
"  Thither  shall  I  come,"  said  Sir  Harry  Percy, 

"  My  troth  I  plight  to  thee." 

A  pipe  of  wine  he  gave  them  over  the  walls. 

For  sooth,  as  I  you  say ; 
There  he  made  the  Douglas  drink, 

And  all  his  host  that  day. 

The  Douglas  turned  him  homeward  again. 

For  sooth  withouten  nay  ; 
He  took  his  lodging  at  Otterburn 

Upon  a  Wednesday ; 
['57] 


tETJe  Battle  of  (Bttttbnm 

And  there  he  pyght  his  standard  down. 

His  getting  more  and  less ; 
And  syne  he  warned  his  men  to  go 

And  get  their  geldings  gress. 

A  Scottish  knight  hoved  upon  the  bent, 

A  watch  I  dare  well  say ; 
So  was  he  ware  on  the  noble  Percy 

In  the  dawning  of  the  day. 

He  pricked  to  his  pavilion  door. 

As  fast  as  he  might  ronne ; 
"  Awaken,  Douglas  !  "  cried  the  knight, 

"  For  His  love  that  sits  in  throne. 

"  Awaken,  Douglas  !  "  cried  the  knight, 
"  For  thou  mayst  waken  with  wynne ; 

Yonder  have  I  spied  the  proud  Percy, 
And  seven  standards  with  him." 

"  Nay,  by  my  troth,"  the  Douglas  said, 

"  It  is  but  a  feigned  tale ; 
He  durst  not  look  on  my  broad  banner. 

For  all  England  so  hayle. 
[158] 


W^t  battle  of  (^ttrrbum 

"  Was  I  not  yesterday  at  the  Newcastle, 

That  stands  so  fair  on  Tyne  ? 
For  all  the  men  the  Percy  had, 

He  could  not  garre  me  once  to  dyne." 

He  stepped  out  at  his  pavilion  door. 

To  look,  and  it  were  less ; 
"  Array  you,  lordyngs,  one  and  all. 

For  here  begins  no  peace. 

"  The  Earl  of  Menteith,  thou  art  my  eme, 

The  forward  I  give  to  thee ; 
The  Earl  of  Huntley  cawte  and  keen, 

He  shall  with  thee  be. 

"  The  Lord  of  Buchan,  in  armour  bright, 
On  the  other  hand  he  shall  be ; 

Lord  Johnstone,  and  Lord  Maxwell, 
They  two  shall  be  with  me. 

"  Swynton  fair  field  upon  your  pride 

To  battle  make  you  bowen ; 
Sir  Davy  Scot,  Sir  Walter  Steward, 

Sir  John  of  Agerstone." 
[«59] 


tCfte  13attlt  of  ^tterbum 


THE    SECOND    FYTTE 

The  Percy  came  before  his  host. 
Which  ever  was  a  gentle  knight. 

Upon  the  Douglas  loud  did  he  cry, 
"  I  wiU  hold  that  I  have  hight ; 

"  For  thou  hast  brente  Northumberland, 

And  done  me  great  envy ; 
For  this  trespass  thou  hast  me  done 

The  one  of  us  shall  die." 

The  Douglas  answered  him  again. 

With  great  words  up  on  hee. 
And  said,  "  I  have  twenty  against  thy  one, 

Behold,  and  thou  mayst  see." 

With  that  the  Percy  was  grieved  sore. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say ; 
He  lighted  down  upon  his  foot, 

And  shot  his  horse  clean  away 

[.60] 


{!Pi)e  Bacde  of  ^cterbum 

Every  man  saw  that  he  did  so, 

That  ryall  was  ever  in  rout ; 
Every  man  shot  his  horse  him  fro, 

And  light  him  round  about. 

Thus  Sir  Harry  Percy  took  the  field. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say ; 
Jesu  Christ  in  heaven  on  high, 

Did  help  him  well  that  day. 

But  nine  thousand,  there  was  no  more. 

If  chronicle  will  not  layne ; 
Forty  thousand  Scots  and  four 

That  day  fought  them  again 

But  when  the  battle  began  to  join. 
In  haste  there  came  a  knight. 

Then  letters  fair  forth  hath  he  ta'cn. 
And  thus  he  said  full  right : 

"  My  lord,  your  father  he  greets  you  well. 

With  many  a  noble  knight ; 
He  desires  you  to  bide. 

That  he  may  see  this  fight 

*  [161] 


tS^^t  llBattU  of  <^tterbum 

"  The  baron  of  Grastock  is  come  out  of  the  west, 

With  him  a  noble  company ; 
All  they  lodge  at  your  father's  this  night, 

And  the  battle  fain  would  they  see." 

"  For  Jesu's  love,"  said  Sir  Harry  Percy, 

"  That  died  for  you  and  me. 
Wend  to  my  lord,  my  father,  again. 

And  say  thou  saw  me  not  with  ee ; 

"  My  troth  is  plight  to  yon  Scottish  knight. 

It  needs  me  not  to  layne. 
That  I  should  bide  him  upon  this  bent, 

And  I  have  his  troth  again ; 

"  And  if  that  I  wend  off  this  ground. 

For  sooth  unfoughten  away. 
He  would  me  call  but  a  coward  knight. 

In  his  land  another  day. 

"  Yet  had  I  lever  to  be  rynde  and  rent. 

By  Mary  that  mykel  may. 
Than  ever  my  manhood  should  be  reproved 

With  a  Scot  another  day. 
[162] 


XE^l^t  llBattU  of  (Otttxbum 

"  Wherefore  shoot,  archers,  for  my  sake. 

And  let  sharp  arrows  flee ; 
Minstrels,  play  up  for  your  warison. 

And  well  quit  it  shall  be. 

"  Every  man  think  on  his  true  love. 

And  mark  him  to  the  Trinity ; 
For  to  God  I  make  mine  a- vow 

This  day  will  I  not  flee.** 

The  bloody  heart  in  the  Douglas*  arms, 

His  standard  stood  on  high, 
That  every  man  might  full  well  know ; 

Beside  stood  star  res  three. 

The  white  Lion  on  the  English  part, 

For  sooth  as  I  you  sayne. 
The  luces  and  the  crescents  both ; 

The  Scots  fought  them  again. 

Upon  Saint  Andrew  loud  did  they  cry, 
And  thrice  they  shout  on  hyght, 

And  syne  marked  them  on  our  EngHshmen, 
As  I  have  told  you  right. 
[163] 


tE^t  Battle  of  (Dttetbum 

Saint  George  the  bright,  our  Lady's  knight, 

To  name  they  were  full  fain, 
Our  Englishmen  they  cried  on  hyght. 

And  thrice  they  shout  again. 

With  that  sharp  arrows  began  to  flee, 

I  tell  you  in  certain ; 
Men  of  arms  began  to  join  ; 

Many  a  doughty  man  was  there  slain. 

The  Percy  and  the  Douglas  met. 

That  either  of  them  was  fain ; 
They  schapped  together,  while  that  they  sweat, 

With  swords  of  fine  Collayne  ; 

Till  the  blood  from  their  basenets  ran 

As  the  roke  doth  in  the  rain. 
"  Yield  thee  to  me,"  said  the  Douglas, 

"  Or  else  thou  shalt  be  slain ; 

"  For  I  see  by  thy  bright  basenet. 

Thou  art  some  man  of  might ; 
And  so  I  do  by  thy  burnished  brand. 

Thou  art  an  earl,  or  else  a  knight." 
[164] 


W^t  HBactle  of  (^ccerbum 

"  By  my  good  faith,'*  said  the  noble  Perc^, 

"  Now  hast  thou  rede  fiill  right ; 
Yet  will  I  never  yield  me  to  thee, 

While  I  may  stand  and  fight." 

They  swapped  together,  while  that  they  sweat, 

With  swordes  sharp  and  long ; 
Each  on  other  so  fast  they  beat. 

Till  their  helms  came  in  pieces  down. 

The  Percy  was  a  man  of  strength, 

I  tell  you  in  this  stound ; 
He  smote  the  Douglas  at  the  sword's  length, 

That  he  felled  him  to  the  ground. 

The  sword  was  sharp,  and  sore  did  byte, 

I  tell  you  in  certain ; 
To  the  heart  he  did  him  smite. 

Thus  was  the  Douglas  slain. 

The  standards  stood  still  on  each  side ; 

With  many  a  grievous  groan, 
There  they  fought  the  day,  and  all  the  night. 

And  many  a  doughty  man  was  slone. 

[■65] 


turtle  115attle  of  a^tterburn 

There  was  no  freyke  that  there  would  fly. 

But  stiffly  in  stour  did  stand, 
Echone  hewing  on  other  while  they  might  dry, 

With  many  a  baleful  brand. 

There  was  slain  upon  the  Scottes  side, 

For  sooth  and  certainly. 
Sir  James  of  Douglas  there  was  slain. 

That  day  that  he  did  die. 

The  Earl  of  Menteith  he  was  slain 
Grysely  groaned  upon  the  ground ; 

Sir  Davy  Scot,  Sir  Walter  Steward, 
Sir  John  of  Agerstone. 

Sir  Charles  Murray  in  that  place, 

That  never  a  foot  would  fly ; 
Sir  Hugh  Maxwell,  a  lord  he  was. 

With  the  Douglas  did  he  die. 

There  was  slain  upon  the  Scottes  side. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say. 
Of  four  and  forty  thousand  Scots, 

Went  but  eighteen  away. 
[i66] 


W}^t  Battle  of  <]^tterburn 

There  was  slain  upon  the  English  side, 

For  sooth  and  certainly, 
A  gentle  knight,  Sir  John  Fitzhugh, 

It  was  the  more  pity. 

Sir  James  Harebotell  there  was  slain, 
For  him  their  hearts  were  sore ; 

The  gentle  Lovel  there  was  slain. 
That  the  Percy's  standard  bore. 

There  was  slain  upon  the  English  side. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say, 
Of  nine  thousand  Englishmen, 

Five  hundred  came  away ; 

The  others  were  slayne  in  the  field, 
Christ  keep  their  souls  from  woe. 

Seeing  there  were  so  few  friends 
Against  so  many  a  foe ! 

Then  on  the  morn  they  made  them  biers 

Of  birch  and  hazel  gray  ; 
Many  a  widow  with  weeping  tears 

Their  makes  they  fetch  away. 
C>67] 


Wi^t  llBattle  of  (Dtterbum 

This  fray  began  at  Otterburn, 
Between  the  night  and  the  day ; 

There  the  Douglas  lost  his  life. 
And  the  Percy  was  led  away. 

Then  was  there  a  Scottish  prisoner  ta'en, 
Sir  Hugh  Montgomery  was  his  name. 

For  sooth  as  I  you  say. 

He  borrowed  the  Percy  home  again. 

Now  let  us  all  for  the  Percy  pray. 

To  Jesu  most  of  might. 
To  bring  his  soul  to  the  bliss  of  heaven. 

For  he  was  a  gentle  knight 


[•68] 


€]^e  Lament  of  tl^e  iSotDer  miDoto 

My  love  he  built  me  a  bonny  bower, 
And  clad  it  a*  wi*  a  lilye  flower, 
A  brawer  bower  ye  ne*er  did  see, 
Than  my  true  love  he  built  for  me. 


There  came  a  man,  by  middle  day, 
He  spied  his  sport  and  went  away. 
And  brought  the  king  that  very  night. 
Who  brake  my  bower,  and  slew  my  knight. 

He  slew  my  knight,  to  me  so  dear ; 
He  slew  my  knight,  and  poined  his  gear ; 
My  servants  all  for  life  did  flee. 
And  left  me  in  extremitie. 
[,69] 


tClie  ilament  of  tje  Boruer  Miuoto 

I  sewed  his  sheet,  making  my  mane ; 
I  watched  the  corpse,  myself  alane ; 
I  watched  his  body,  night  and  day ; 
No  living  creature  came  that  way. 

I  took  his  body  on  my  back, 
And  whiles  I  gaed,  and  whiles  I  sat, 
I  digged  a  grave,  and  laid  him  in. 
And  happed  him  with  the  sod  so  green. 

But  think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair. 
When  I  laid  the  mouF  on  his  yellow  hair ; 
Think  na  ye  my  heart  was  wae. 
When  I  turned  about,  away  to  gae  ? 

Nae  living  man  Til  love  again. 
Since  that  my  lovely  knight  is  slain ; 
Wi'  ae  lock  of  his  yellow  hair 
rU  chain  my  heart  for  evermair. 


[170] 


Ci^e  TSanfijS  o'  garroto 

Late  at  e*en,  drinking  the  wine, 
And  ere  they  paid  the  lawing, 

They  set  a  combat  them  between, 
To  fight  it  in  the  dawing. 

"  What  though  ye  be  my  sister's  lord. 
We'll  cross  our  swords  to-morrow." 

"  What  though  my  wife  your  sister  be, 
ril  meet  ye  then  on  Yarrow." 

"  O  stay  at  hame,  my  ain  gude  lord ! 

O  stay,  my  ain  dear  marrow ! 
My  cruel  brither  will  you  betray 

On  the  dowie  banks  o'  Yarrow." 
[171] 


QTI^e  115anb0  o'  ^arroto 

"  O  fare  ye  weel,  my  lady  dear ! 

And  put  aside  your  sorrow ; 
For  if  I  gae,  I'll  sune  return 

Frae  the  bonny  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

She  kiss'd  his  cheek,  she  kaim'd  his  hair, 
As  oft  she'd  done  before,  O  ; 

She  belted  him  wi'  his  gude  brand. 
And  he's  awa'  to  Yarrow. 

When  he  gaed  up  the  Tennies  bank. 
As  he  gaed  mony  a  morrow. 

Nine  armed  men  lay  in  a  den. 
On  the  dowie  braes  o'  Yarrow. 

"  O  come  ye  here  to  hunt  or  hawk 
The  bonny  Forest  thorough  ? 

Or  come  ye  here  to  wield  your  brand 
Upon  the  banks  o'  Yarrow  ?  " 

"  I  come  not  here  to  hunt  or  hawk. 

As  oft  I've  dune  before,  O, 
But  I  come  here  to  wield  my  brand 

Upon  the  banks  o'  Yarrow. 


"  If  ye  attack  me  nine  to  ane, 

Then  may  God  send  ye  sorrow !  — 

Yet  will  I  fight  while  stand  I  may, 
On  the  bonny  banks  o'  Yarrow." 

Two  has  he  hurt,  and  three  has  slain, 
On  the  bloody  braes  o*  Yarrow ; 

But  the  stubborn  knight  crept  in  behind, 
And  pierced  his  body  thorough. 

"  Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  you  brither  John, 
And  tell  your  sister  sorrow, — 

To  come  and  lift  her  leafu*  lord 
On  the  dowie  banks  o*  Yarrow." 

Her  brither  John  gaed  ower  yon  hill, 

As  oft  he'd  dune  before,  O ; 
There  he  met  his  sister  dear. 

Cam'  rinnin'  fast  to  Yarrow. 

"  I  dreamt  a  dream  last  night,"  she  says, 

"  I  wish  it  binna  sorrow ; 
I  dreamt  I  pu'd  the  heather  green 

Wi*  my  true  love  on  Yarrow." 
[>73] 


tirtie  115anfc0(  o'  ^arroln 

"  ril  read  your  dream,  sister,"  he  says, 

"  ril  read  it  into  sorrow  ; 
Ye*re  bidden  go  take  up  your  love. 

He's  sleeping  sound  on  Yarrow." 

She's  torn  the  ribbons  frae  her  head 
That  were  baith  braid  and  narrow ; 

She's  kilted  up  her  lang  claithing. 
And  she's  awa'  to  Yarrow. 

She's  ta'en  him  in  her  arms  twa. 
And  gi'en  him  kisses  thorough ; 

She  sought  to  bind  his  mony  wounds. 
But  he  lay  dead  on  Yarrow. 

"  O  haud  your  tongue,"  her  father  says, 
"  And  let  be  a'  your  sorrow  ; 

I'll  wed  you  to  a  better  lord 
Than  him  ye  lost  on  Yarrow." 

"  O  haud  your  tongue,  father,"  she  says, 
"  Far  warse  ye  mak'  my  sorrow ; 

A  better  lord  could  never  be 
Than  him  that  lies  on  Yarrow." 
[174] 


She  kiss'd  his  lips,  she  kaim'd  his  hair. 
As  aft  she  had  dune  before,  O ; 

And  there  wi'  grief  her  heart  did  break. 
Upon  the  banks  o*  Yarrow. 


[«75] 


i^ug]^  of  Ifncoln 


SHOWING    THE    CRUELTY    OF    A    JEW  S    DAUGHTER 

Four  and  twenty  bonny  boys 

Were  playing  at  the  ba*. 
And  up  it  stands  him  sweet  Sir  Hugh, 

The  flower  among  them  a'. 

He  kicked  the  ba'  there  wi'  his  foot. 

And  keppit  it  wi'  his  knee. 

Till  even  in  at  the  Jew's  window 

He  gart  the  bonny  ba'  flee. 

"  Cast  out  the  ba'  to  me,  fair  maid. 

Cast  out  the  ba*  to  me." 
"  Never  a  bit,"  says  the  Jew's  daughter, 

"  Till  ye  come  up  to  me." 
['76] 


I^ug!)  of  ilincoln 

"  Come  up,  sweet  Hugh,  come  up,  dear  Hugh, 

Come  up  and  get  the  ba'.'* 
"  I  winna  come,  I  mayna  come. 

Without  my  bonny  boys  a*." 

She's  ta*en  her  to  the  Jew's  garden, 
Where  the  grass  grew  lang  and  green, 

She's  pu'd  an  apple  red  and  white. 
To  wyle  the  bonny  boy  in. 

She's  wyled  him  in  through  ae  chamber, 

She's  wyled  him  in  through  twa. 
She's  wyled  him  into  the  third  chamber, 

And  that  was  the  warst  o*  a'. 

She's  tied  the  little  boy,  hands  and  feet. 

She's  pierced  him  wi'  a  knife, 
She's  caught  his  heart's  blood  in  a  golden  cup. 

And  twinn'd  him  o'  his  life. 

She  row'd  him  in  a  cake  o'  lead, 

Bade  him  lie  still  and  sleep, 
She  cast  him  in  a  deep  draw-well 

Was  fifty  fathom  deep. 
M  [177] 


I^ug]^  of  ilincoln 

When  bells  were  rung,  and  mass  was  sung. 

And  every  bairn  went  hame, 
Then  ilka  lady  had  her  young  son. 

But  Lady  Helen  had  nane. 

She  row'd  her  mantle  her  about, 

And  sair,  sair  *gan  she  weep ; 
And  she  ran  unto  the  Jew's  house, 

When  they  were  all  asleep. 

"  My  bonny  Sir  Hugh,  my  pretty  Sir  Hugh, 

I  pray  thee  to  me  speak  ! " 
"  Lady  Helen,  come  to  the  deep  draw-well 

*Gin  ye  your  son  wad  seek." 

Lady  Helen  ran  to  the  deep  draw-well. 

And  knelt  upon  her  knee : 
"  My  bonny  Sir  Hugh,  an  ye  be  here, 

I  pray  thee  speak  to  me ! " 

"  The  lead  is  wondrous  heavy,  mither. 

The  well  is  wondrous  deep ; 
A  keen  penknife  sticks  in  my  heart. 

It  is  hard  for  me  to  speak. 


^xiqf)  of  iltncoln 

"  Gae  hame,  gae  hame,  my  mither  dear, 
Fetch  me  my  winding-sheet ; 

And  at  the  back  o*  merry  Lincoln, 
It's  there  we  twa  sail  meet.'* 

Now  Lady  Helen  she's  gane  hame, 
Made  him  a  winding-sheet ; 

And  at  the  back  o'  merry  Lincoln, 
The  dead  corpse  did  her  meet. 

And  a'  the  bells  o*  merry  Lincoln 
Without  men's  hands  were  rung; 

And  a'  the  books  o*  merry  Lincoln 
Were  read  without  men's  tongue : 

Never  was  such  a  burial 
Sin*  Adam's  days  begun. 


[179] 


r/rr- 

^ 

8 

p 

A 

p 

The  king  sits  in  Dunfermline  town, 
Drinking  the  blude-red  wine ; 

"  O  whare  will  I  get  a  skeely  skipper, 
To  sail  this  new  ship  of  mine  ?  " 

O  up  and  spak*  an  eldern  knight. 
Sat  at  the  king's  right  knee, 

"  Sir  Patrick  Spens  is  the  best  sailor. 
That  ever  sailed  the  sea." 

Our  king  has  written  a  braid  letter. 
And  sealed  it  with  his  hand, 

And  sent  it  to  Sir  Patrick  Spens, 
Was  walking  on  the  strand. 
[i8o] 


&tr  Patrick  &ptm 

"  To  Noroway,  to  Noroway, 

To  Noroway  o'er  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway 

*Tis  thou  maun  bring  her  hame." 

The  first  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

Sae  loud  loud  laughed  he ; 
The  neist  word  that  Sir  Patrick  read, 

The  tear  blinded  his  ee. 

"  O  wha  IS  this  has  done  this  deed. 

And  tauld  the  king  o*  me, 
To  send  us  out  at  this  time  of  the  year, 

To  sail  upon  the  sea  ? 

"  Be  it  wind,  be  it  weet,  be  it  hail,  be  it  sleet. 

Our  ship  must  sail  the  faem ; 
The  king's  daughter  of  Noroway, 

'Tis  we  must  fetch  her  hame." 

They  hoysed  their  sails  on  Moneday  mom, 

Wi'  a'  the  speed  they  may ; 
They  hae  landed  in  Noroway, 

Upon  a  Wednesday. 
[.8.] 


They  hadna  been  a  week,  a  week, 

In  Noroway,  but  twae, 
When  that  the  lords  o'  Noroway 

Began  aloud  to  say : 

"  Ye  Scottishmen  spend  a'  our  king's  goud, 

And  a*  our  queen's  fee." 
"  Ye  lie,  ye  lie,  ye  liars  loud ! 

Fu'  loud  I  hear  ye  lie ; 

"  For  I  brought  as  much  white  monie. 

As  gane  my  men  and  me. 
And  I  brought  a  half-fou  of  gude  red  goud. 

Out  o'er  the  sea  wi'  me. 

"  Make  ready,  make  ready,  my  merry  men  a'. 

Our  gude  ship  sails  the  morn." 
"  Now,  ever  alake,  my  master  dear, 

I  fear  a  deadly  storm ! 

"  I  saw  the  new  moon,  late  yestreen, 

Wi'  the  old  moon  in  her  arm ; 
And,  if  we  gang  to  sea,  master, 

I  fear  we'll  come  to  harm." 

[182] 


They  hadna  sailed  a  league,  a  league, 

A  league  but  barely  three. 
When  the  lift  grew  dark,  and  the  wind  blew  loud, 

And  gurly  grew  the  sea. 

The  ankers  brak,  and  the  topmasts  lap. 

It  was  sic  a  deadly  storm ; 
And  the  waves  cam  o'er  the  broken  ship. 

Till  a'  her  sides  were  torn. 

"  O  where  will  I  get  a  gude  sailor. 

To  take  my  helm  in  hand, 
Till  I  get  up  to  the  tall  top-mast, 

To  see  if  I  can  spy  land  ? " 

"  O  here  am  I,  a  sailor  gude. 

To  take  the  helm  in  hand, 
Till  you  go  up  to  the  tall  top-mast ; 

But  I  fear  you'll  ne'er  spy  land." 

He  hadna  gane  a  step,  a  step, 

A  step  but  barely  ane. 
When  a  bout  flew  out  of  our  goodly  ship. 

And  the  salt  sea  it  cam  in. 
['83] 


"  Gae,  fetch  a  web  of  the  silken  claith. 

Another  o*  the  twine. 
And  wap  them  into  our  ship's  side. 

And  let  nae  the  sea  come  in." 

They  fetched  a  web  o'  the  silken  claith, 

Another  o'  the  twine. 
And  they  wapped  them  round  that  gude  ship's  side. 

But  still  the  sea  cam  in. 

O  laith,  laith,  were  our  gude  Scots  lords 

To  weet  their  cork-heeled  shoon  ! 
But  lang  or  a'  the  play  was  played. 

They  wat  their  hats  aboon. 

And  mony  was  the  feather  bed. 

That  flattered  on  the  faem ; 
And  mony  was  the  gude  lord's  son. 

That  never  mair  cam  hame. 

The  ladies  wrang  their  fingers  white. 

The  maidens  tore  their  hair, 
A*  for  the  sake  of  their  true  loves ; 

For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair. 

[.84] 


S>ir  patricfe  ^pntflf 

O  lang,  lang,  may  the  ladies  sit, 
Wi'  their  fans  into  their  hand, 

Before  they  see  Sir  Patrick  Spens 
Come  sailing  to  the  strand  ! 

And  lang,  lang,  may  the  maidens  sit, 
With  their  goud  kaims  in  their  hair 

A'  waiting  for  their  ain  dear  loves, 
For  them  they'll  see  nae  mair ! 

O  forty  miles  off  Aberdeen, 

'Tis  fifty  fathoms  deep. 
And  there  lies  gude  Sir  Patrick  Spens 

Wi*  the  Scots  lords  at  his  feet. 


[»85] 


viPlnl9 


Tb*  Ntrwa  Prm 
S.  Qubiwg  ar  O.  —  Btrwick  V  Smith 
N^rm-d^  Mau.,  U.S.A. 


I 


